


Know When You Are Beaten

by FourCornersHolmes



Series: The Assorted & Collected Misadventures of John H. Watson, RAMC, MD [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: "Captain", Adson? Watler?, And Anna, And Arya, And Dani, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, BDSM, Captain John Watson, Dom Irene Adler, Dom Sherlock Holmes, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Healthy dom/sub relationships, Hurt John Watson, I blame this on a prompt from the FB group, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Suicide, James Bond References, Light BDSM?, M/M, Mary Dies, Mary Morstan is Moran, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, Multi, Multiple Partners, Never thought I'd use THOSE tags!, Not sorry., Partner Swapping, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safeword Use, Safewords, Sub Greg Lestrade, Sub John Watson, Suicidal Thoughts, Switch John Watson, Switch Sherlock, Switching, Went there., What's the ship-name for John and Irene?, Yep., minor crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-07-24 20:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 104,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16182401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes
Summary: **Based off of a prompt from the AO3 FB group.** John Watson finds himself at odds after spending a month in jail for vandalism. Sherlock Holmes has been dead for eighteen months and John has been adrift ever since, getting by day-to-day but just kind of...existing. Then, he meets Irene Adler. Properly. And discovers that she has exactly what he needs and is more than happy to provide. There's just a few rules to abide by and ghosts to appease. The Woman and The Captain. What an unlikely couple, what a lovely couple.





	1. Abandoned By My Past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Danagirl623](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danagirl623/gifts), [Aryagraceling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aryagraceling/gifts), [RussianWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/gifts).



> So, I blame Anna (RussianWitch) for poking at me after I expressed interest in an Adler/Watson pairing for a prompt and convincing me to actually DO something about it. And Dani (DanaGirl623) for being my sounding-board for some really weird conversations and my muse. Thanks, ladies, this wouldn't be possible without you! And to my dear little Lucifer (Aryagraceling), who gave me her seal of approval for the ANGST. The Mistress of Angst approves, that's good in my books!  
> ::  
> READ THE TAGS! ANGST! I don't DO angst, but here it be! I've been reliably informed that is is Grade-A Angst. Gird your loins and prepare your asses!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets out of a stint in jail, nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Then salvation comes in the form of a text-message from someone he hasn't seen or spoken to in years. An unlikely friend and ally in a world that has changed and seems lonely and hostile.

* * *

* * *

It was quiet in the jail cell, and as he listened to the sounds of his cell-mates sleeping, John Watson stared at his hands. There wasn’t anything wrong with them, exactly, but the bits of bright yellow spray-paint still visible kind of made him smile. His gaze strayed to the red marks around his wrists and he frowned. He was only sitting on a bunk in a jail cell because he’d gotten himself arrested for public mischief and vandalism. It probably wouldn’t go on his permanent record, or really make a difference if it did, but he’d been pulled in for drawing graffiti on the side of an abandoned warehouse in Lambeth a week ago.

 

It wasn’t the first time he’d been arrested, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, and he had to give the arresting officers credit for taking it easy. He hadn’t put up a fight, they had him dead to rights, and they had recognized him. They had taken two cans of bright yellow spray-paint, a specific brand, his mobile, his watch, his wallet, and his side-arm. It was privately owned and properly licensed, he would get it back whenever he got out of jail. Tracing the red abrasion mark on his left wrist, John sighed and looked up at the ceiling. Well, it was the bunk above him, but it was the principle. It had been a year and a half since Sherlock Holmes had jumped, had committed suicide because of a twisted, smiling, baby-faced criminal genius. John hated Jim Moriarty with everything he had in him, every capacity to that emotion. After a while, he closed his eyes. It was better to sleep now, morning would come soon enough, and with it, another awful, lonely day. He wondered if he would ever find something to fill his time, someone to engage him the way Sherlock had done. 

 

Time stacked up and days turned into weeks. One morning, John was writing in a notebook Mrs Hudson had brought him shortly after he was arrested when one of the wardens came into the block.

“Watson!” He yelled. John raised his head and peered out of the open door of his cell. “Oi, Watson!”

“Here, sir!” He showed himself.

“Come on down, your time’s up! Bail’s been posted!”

“Really?” He hesitated before going down the stairs. He’d been here for a month by now, had anticipated a much longer stay. They put him in cuffs, the warden took his notebook, and he left the block accompanied by the warden and two guards. It didn’t take long to clear out-processing, and he wondered who had paid his bail. Asking got him nowhere, whoever had paid his bail must have done it anonymously.

“Didn’t get a name for ‘er, but she was a good-lookin’ woman.” The clerk mused as he processed John’s papers.

“Uh, wh-what did she look like?” He asked as he fiddled with the strap of his watch.

“Smaller woman. Dark hair, dark eyes. Knew her business. Said she was a friend of yours?”

“Oh.” John narrowed his eyes. Not his sister, then, or his sister-in-law. Anthea? No, if it was Mycroft’s assistant, he would have heard something long before now. Who was it? He shrugged and decided to get out while he could. Thanking the clerk, he picked up his coat and wallet, made sure he had his phone and patted the butt of his pistol tucked into the back of his trousers. He had gotten the magazine back, empty of course, but that was fine.

 

As he stepped out of the station and onto the streets of London, a free man for the first time in a month, John looked around. He didn’t see anyone who might be waiting for him, not right away, and sighed. Well, he could take the tube if a taxi wouldn’t stop for him. As he headed down the street away from the station, he powered his phone on for the first time in a month. Of course, his voicemail was full, and his text inbox was overflowing. Most of it seemed to be from his sister, those messages were promptly erased. A new message came in just then, from a number he didn’t quite recognize.

**I’m not hungry. Let’s have dinner.**

There was no signature, but the text was…familiar. John chuckled and raised his head.

“You have _got_ to be joking.” He murmured, debating on a response. Hmm. After a moment, he tapped out a reply.

 

**Handcuffs fucking hurt.**

See what she said to _that_. It didn’t take long for her to respond, he hadn’t expected it to.

 

**Use silk rope next time.**

 

**I don’t think I can convince a police officer to use silk rope.**

 

**Oh, you just have to know the right sort of police officer, dear.**

That was such a typical thing of her to say, and he had to give credit for her sense of humour.

**Where are you? Right now, where are you?**

John had no idea why he was bothering, but he needed human interaction and Irene Adler was a better option than trying to drink himself into a stupor at a pub with a crowd of strangers.

 

**I can see Tower Bridge from my room. Work out where I am and join me.**

The attached pictures showed a lovely suite, obviously a hotel somewhere in London, and when John saw that _bed_ , never mind the lovely view of Tower Bridge, he wanted to cry. She even sent him a picture of the ensuite bathroom. As soon as John figured out where the hell Adler was, he’d find a way to get there. It wasn’t likely a taxi would stop for him, but the Tube was a fair bet. Or, he could just walk. He knew his way around London fairly well, and the freedom _to_ walk, wherever he liked for as long as he liked, was very appealing to a man who had been locked up for a month. Some clever work with location-services and his knowledge of the city and it’s landmarks and bridges had him with a destination in five minutes. Sherlock could have gotten it in three, but John wasn’t Sherlock. So, with a destination, he set off on his cross-city jaunt. It said something when John decided against flagging down a taxi (unlikely to stop for him anyway) or taking the Tube (too crowded), and walked from Paddington Green where he’d spent the last month to Adler’s hotel in Saint Katharine’s. She was apparently staying at The Tower Hotel, and she gave him her room-number, very kind of her.

 

When he got to the hotel, he bypassed the desk and headed for the stairs. Not the lift, the stairs. The looks he got, the whispers that followed, he ignored them. Christ knew he needed a shower, a decent shower, and probably a shave and maybe even a haircut, John wasn’t brave enough to look at himself in a mirror. At the moment, he probably looked homeless. He had written down the room-number on a page in his notebook and when he finally found Adler’s suite, way up on the top floor of the hotel, he took a minute to catch his breath before he knocked. He had walked five miles from Paddington to Saint Katharine’s, and then up twelve flights of stairs, he was tired, sore, and filthy. He felt bad for showing up at Adler’s door like this, but there was nothing for it. She had promised him safe-haven, he wasn’t turning her down. He knocked on the door, softly, then more firmly when there was no immediate answer. The door was opened for him by a woman he recalled worked for Adler, he had no idea what her exact job-description entailed, but he remembered that her name was Kate. When she got a good look at him, her eyes widened.

“Oh my god.”

“Sorry about this. Is…she around?”

“Yes! Come in, please! Where…?”

“Paddington Green.” He stepped into the suite and looked around. No sign of Adler, she would show herself when she felt like it.

“No offence, Doctor Watson, but you look like _hell_!”

“Feel it. Wasn’t expecting to hear from anybody I knew.” He handed over his coat and backpack, toed off his shoes, and covered his face with both hands. It felt so strange to be here, out of Paddington Green, out of prison. Jesus, that had been awful.

“Follow me, Doctor Watson.” Kate said quietly, “Can I get you anything?”

“Er, water, please?”

“Of course.” She showed him into the bedroom, “Miss Adler said you were free to take a shower if you’d like one.”

“Thank you, Kate.” He smiled, or tried to. Kate brought him a bottle of water and a cup of tea. Then she was gone, closing the door as she tapped away on her phone. Probably sending a message to Adler, who was apparently not in at the moment. Oh well, he would see her eventually. He drank half the water, all of the tea, and debated that shower. Hot water would feel amazing, and without worrying about anyone trying to move on him in the showers, privacy would be fantastic.

 

Going into the ensuite, he shed his clothes, which were clean, and ran the water as hot as he could. Before stepping under the showerhead, he brushed his teeth. He looked as ragged as he felt, but he wasn’t inspired to do anything about it. Taking his time in the shower, John scrubbed every inch of his body, watched the water turn grey and murky, and frowned. Disgusting. Once his skin smarted and he was about to pass out from the heat, he got out and grabbed a warm towel. Drying off, he returned to the bedroom and laid his clothes aside for later. Pulling on his vest and briefs, John decided he might as well sleep. It was barely four, but he was exhausted. Getting into bed, he didn’t miss the way the sheets smelled like Adler.

“Thank Christ that’s over.” He muttered, wondering what Sherlock would think of the whole mess. He’d probably roll his eyes at John for being so sentimental, and call him an idiot for getting caught in the first place. But he would smile, secretly pleased about things. John missed Sherlock terribly, and couldn’t keep himself from crying himself to sleep. He hadn’t cried at all while he’d been at Paddington Green, not openly, but now he couldn’t help it. He was free, he was relatively safe, and he didn’t care what anyone thought if they saw him.

* * *

* * *

 


	2. Comforted By Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Irene meet, and Irene takes care of John.

* * *

* * *

Irene Adler knew John Watson had found them when she returned to the suite at The Tower Hotel; she saw his coat and backpack, his phone sat on the business-centre charging. Kate was in the lounge, reading, and looked up as she came in. Without a word, her assistant pointed at the bedroom, the door of which was closed. Nodding, and unsure of exactly what she would find, Irene approached the room and knocked softly before she entered. Getting no answer, she went in and found him passed out on the bed. It was clear the last eighteen months hadn’t been very kind to John Watson, his hair was longer than it had been last she had seen him in person, he wore a scruffy beard of a few months’ growth, and there were care-lines on his face that hadn’t been there before.

“Oh, you poor thing.” She murmured, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He barely stirred, but when she touched him, he made some soft sound of distress. Irene made her living on other peoples’ sexual humiliations, but John Watson had always fascinated her the way no one else did. Not even his tall, pompous flat-mate. Sherlock had been fun to mess with, but John...there was something special about the stocky, slightly-clumsy veteran. Something about him that begged for someone to take care of him properly, to look after his needs when no one else could.

“John?” Irene spoke his name softly, running her fingers through his hair, soft and clean after a well-deserved shower, she could smell the hotel-brand soap on his skin. As he stirred, hearing his name, she touched where she might be allowed to, taking a selfish moment to appreciate the scrape of his beard against her fingertips. What would that feel like on  _other_ parts of her body? What would  _he_ feel like?

“Irene?”

“Hello, John.” She smiled as he opened his eyes, “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah. I...think so. It was quiet.”

“I’m sure it was just the kind of quiet you needed.” She pulled her hand away but paused when his fingers closed around her wrist. Ah, did he like that? She raised an eyebrow and quietly deduced the man in her bed. Yes, he did like it, but he was rather...specific about his needs and his wants. He enjoyed taking care of other people, but he also enjoyed being taken care of. And most of his past partners hadn’t exactly been all that good about the whole give-and-take of the relationship. There had been a bit of give-and-take with Sherlock, but more giving than taking on John’s part. He liked being in control, but he liked giving that up on occasion, letting someone else take over.

“Oh, you’re a special one, aren’t you?” she familiarized herself with the calluses on his fingers, the specific roughness on certain joints. “Amazing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are amazing, and unique, John Watson.” She pulled her hand free and touched the side of his face, “Don’t ever let anyone say otherwise.” As she got up, he reached for her again, sitting up on the bed.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to take a shower. You can stay here if you’d like.” She smiled and stroked his hair with one hand, giving him friendly, affirmative touch. He reacted beautifully to her handling, and when she tightened her fingers in his hair just shy of painful, it was not a sound of discomfort he made. He  _liked_ it, she realized. Oh she had an absolute gem on her hands, didn’t she? What a lucky woman she was!

“I won’t be long, dear. Stay here for me.” She let him go, not missing the soft whine. “Can you wait for me, like a good boy?” This would be a bit of a test for him, to see if she’d read the situation correctly.

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“I assume you know what to do, Captain?”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He just nodded, keeping his head down and his gaze averted. She wasn’t the first one, was she? Someone else had worked with him in the past. Who? When? How long had they been together? Smiling to herself, she went to the en-suite and ran the water for the shower. Stepping out to the lounge after she had shed her clothes, she approached Kate, who saw her coming and just smiled.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I need a few things from you, my dear girl.” She leaned down and kissed Kate on the cheek, “You have Captain Watson’s measurements?”

“Yes, ma’am. The shop called while you were out, the suit is ready for pick-up when we need it.”

“Good girl. Go get everything for tonight, I have plans for our sweet soldier.”

“Yes, ma’am. Will you come back here or to the house?”

“Hmm. I haven’t decided.” She just smiled, drumming her fingertips against the back of the couch. They could easily play in either location, she would leave that to John’s discretion. He may not want to be seen entering or leaving her residence, or he may not care what people thought of him now.

“Text me when you know something. I’ll prepare for all eventualities, shall I?”

“Please do, my dear. And see about keeping that scoundrel Holmes off our trail a bit longer, will you?”

“My pleasure.” Kate’s smile became predatory. “I believe, ma’am, if you aren’t going to need me tonight, I owe my girlfriend a visit.”

“Give her my love, will you?” Irene chuckled and sent Kate on her way. Stepping into the shower, she took time to tend to herself. She had waxed that morning, a depilatory took care of other unwanted body-hair. Once she was satisfied, she dried off and went back into the bedroom.

 

John was a man of simple needs, and he wasn’t used to asking for them, but when he decided to take that risk, he had an interesting way to ask. She had simply told him to wait for her, she hadn’t said  _how_ she wanted him to wait, and when she found him kneeling by the bed, head down, hands on his thighs, relaxed but alert, Irene just smiled. Hearing her come in, he raised his head and she watched his eyes gaze travel up until he met her gaze.

“See something you like, Captain?”

“Oh, god, yes. Yes, Miss Adler.” He breathed, eyes wide. He wasn’t alarmed by the sight of her nakedness, he was...intrigued. Irene stepped into his space and reached out to touch him.

“Hmm. You like being touched, don’t you?” She stroked a line from his shoulder to his scalp, marvelling at the roughness of his beard against her palm, running her fingers through his hair, “You like being petted.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“You like being cherished and taken care of.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” It was a soft sigh. He leaned against her touch, careful not to be too obvious about it. Irene smiled and tightened her grip as she had before, tugging until he dropped his head back. His response was swift and complete, his eyes wide with an unspoken want, some need unfulfilled. A month in prison must have been devastating for him. She could tell he had shed tears, wondered how many nights had been passed in silent grieving for Sherlock Holmes.

“Oh, you poor thing.” She crooned, “Poor, sweet Watson.”

“I’m...sorry, Miss Adler.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry.” She soothed, keeping her touch light but firm, “It’s perfectly acceptable to grieve.”

“Help me.”

“What do you want, Captain? Use your words, tell me  _exactly_ what you want.”

“I want...to feel. I want to...” He trailed off, dropped his head, shaking.

“You want to be taken care of for a change, you want someone else to look after you. Is that it?”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“Don’t cry. Unless your tears are for Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’ve...already cried for him. Because of him.” A shaky, unsteady breath in, “I’m sorry, Miss Adler.”

“Don’t apologize to me, Captain. Look at me.” She applied gentle pressure until he looked up, “Will you allow  _me_ to take care of you now? To look after your needs?”

“Can you do that, Miss Adler? You have so many other clients.”

“Oh, you are not a client.” She narrowed her eyes and tightened her grip again, “I will never treat you like that unless you ask me to. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” She saw the grief and fear slide away, felt him still under her hand, and smiled.

“That’s my boy.” She stroked the back of his neck, “You enjoy being touched, is there anywhere that is off limits?”

“I don’t think so, Miss Adler, I’ll say if there is.”

“Very well. Do you have a safe-word?”

“Do you think we’ll need to use one?”

“I always have safe-words.”

“Stad.” He looked up at her after a while, “It’s...Gaelic for “Stop”.”

“That will do.” She smiled and cradled the back of his head, enjoying the feel of his hair under her fingers. “Stad. Say it if you must. For anything at all.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“Now, what do you want?”

“I want to feel again.”

“Do you want me to take care of you?”

“Yes, please.”

“Then trust me.” She stepped closer until they were nearly touching, didn’t miss the way his eyes widened again, the deep inhale, the soft groan. She looked down at the trusting man at her feet. He wasn’t quite lost, but he didn’t have anywhere else to turn. So, he’d turned to her. She had reached out on a whim and had been rewarded for taking a chance on John Watson. She suspected there would be further returns for her efforts if she maintained a relationship of some kind with him. But he would lead this relationship; she would go at his pace and respect all of his boundaries, whatever they were. It was the least she could do for him.

“You’re allowed to touch me.” She smiled, keeping her grip light and neutral, and she saw his hands twitching. He had a reputation, well-earned, and watched him process and react. There was a slight tremor, she suspected it would disappear as he got braver.

It wasn’t that Irene was unused to being touched, but she wasn’t quite used to the kind of touching it turned out John preferred. He definitely knew what he was doing, exploring every inch of her on his knees, finding the sweet spot on the back of her left knee completely by accident.

“Oh, God.” She fought to keep her feet, one hand tight in his hair, the other resting on his shoulder.

“Ah.” He looked up at her and smiled, “That’s interesting!” He didn’t exploit his discovery, thank God, but Irene knew better than to think he’d let her forget about that little slip of hers.

“God, you’re gorgeous.” He murmured as he stroked the curve of her hips, trailing behind to trace the swell of her arse. He kissed the soft skin of her stomach, the slightest bulge that was middle-age and womanhood together conspiring against a supermodel figure, nuzzling and she swore she felt teeth. Oh, that was bold of him.

“Fucking beautiful.” As if he could read her mind, knowing she wasn’t terribly fond of that particular part of her body. She didn’t say a word, just kept one hand on his hair, not insisting or guiding, just...resting there to touch for the sake of touching.

 

She had imagined what the scrape of his beard against her skin would feel like, it was a hundred times better than she’d ever thought it could be. When he got to exploring her thighs, Irene almost fell backwards. He held her up, chuckling at the way she responded to that.

“Hmm, who’s taking care of who, now?” He stroked the back of her thighs with careful, clever fingers, and Irene desperately wanted those fingers somewhere else a bit more exciting. With a final, almost rueful kiss to her left thigh, John disappeared. Before she could complain, he was standing up.

“Had to stand up before my knees locked. Bloody leg.” He apologized, grinning like a little boy up to mischief.

“Oh, Captain.”

“Hmm?”

“Can I take care of you? Please?”

“Of course you can, Miss Adler.” His smile softened and he put both arms around her. He was a bit taller than she, and that was...fine. It was more than fine, actually. When John kissed her, it was with all the skill and finesse of someone who had done this many times before and knew exactly what he was doing and exactly  _how_ to do it best. This would certainly be an arrangement with a great deal of give-and-take, and Irene was determined to make it fair between them. For as much as he gave, she would offer an equivalent return.

 

It was with a deep sense of regret that Irene gave him a condom, but until they were absolutely certain of his status, better safe than sorry. She was clean, of course.

“Tomorrow.” She promised as she knelt between his legs. “May I?”

“Please.” He watched as she took the condom between her teeth and got to business rolling it over his cock. He wasn’t a small man, a bit broader and longer than some, but it was a delightful mouthful and she enjoyed the soft sounds he made as she played a bit. A careful tug on her hair warned her and she pulled back.

“Jesus Christ, woman! Don’t finish me off just yet!” He huffed, laughing, “Oh, you’re a sly minx, aren’t you?”

“I said I would take care of you, didn’t I? I am nothing if not a woman of my word.”

“Be careful with you, eh?” He grinned and pulled her up until they were chest-to-chest. “I know I’m not your usual, but will you put up with a misguided, homeless ex-Army doctor for a night?”

“Oh, I’ll put up with you longer than  _that_.” She promised, “And just because I fancy the ladies doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a fine bloke. You’re just my kind of guy, Captain.”

“We’ll see about that.” He rolled his eyes. She raised an eyebrow and studied the man beneath her. It was the first time she had seen him without any clothes, and she made note of several things about him. He was quite skinny, almost gaunt, he had lost weight since 2011. But he was still handsome. She remembered a boyish, almost baby-faced man following Sherlock Holmes around like a puppy, looking at the world around him with a heartbreaking innocence. He had seen war and survived horrors untold, but there was an innocence in him that had appealed to Irene. The man with her now was much older, more world-wise. His eyes held an untold sadness, there was an edge to him that had not been there before.

 

Irene leaned down and kissed him, wanting to distract him for a while, to give him something to look forward to, something to look back on later and smile about. She wanted to distract them both, if she was going to be completely honest.

“Irene...”

“I’ll take care of you.” She promised. “I can’t replace him, but I’ll take care of you.” That, for now, would have to be enough.

She moved first and settled herself. It took a bit of adjusting to realize that she couldn’t, in fact, take all of him from that position. That was a first. He grunted, hands tight around her biceps.

“Irene...”

“Shh.” She hushed him and rocked a bit. It didn’t take much to roll them, giving him the top position, and she moaned when the switch pushed him deeper.  _There_ it was.

“Christ.” He muttered, eyes blown almost completely black, “God damn it.”

“Breathe, John.” She coached.

“So tight.” He dropped his head to her shoulder, “So...hot. Perfect. God. Perfect.” For a moment, they just laid together like that, getting used to each other. Finally, John began to move and Irene let him take whatever he needed from her. She noticed that he took care to attend to  _her_ needs as well as his own, reading from her body-language and responses what  _she_ wanted. How he knew was a mystery to her, but when he changed their position, sliding a pillow under her hips, she instinctively locked her legs around his waist. That drove him as deep as he could go, and it was...breath-taking. There was plenty of kissing, sweet and filthy endearments spoken in broken whispers, and some more visible marks that might be hidden by clothes. It was...perfect.

* * *

* * *

 


	3. Evening Choices Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date-night out on the town. Irene's a high-class gal and John's a lucky man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of 2

* * *

* * *

John had kind of forgotten what time it was, sleeping away most of the afternoon and engaging in some pretty amazing sex for the rest of it, and was surprised when he looked out the window of Irene Adler’s penthouse and saw that it was dark. The bed next to him was empty, but the sheets were still warm so she hadn’t been gone that long. He rolled onto his back and rested one hand on his stomach, the other wandering to the emptiness beside him. Christ, how long had it been since he’d slept with someone? He couldn’t remember. That was pathetic. But for a first time, God, it had been fantastic. Who would ever think Irene Adler was good for some of the best sex he’d had in...ever? He’d been surprised that she wanted anything to do with him, but if she was the one who had paid his way out of jail, he’d do anything she wanted him to.

 

She swore she wouldn’t treat him like a client, but she was not the first dominant he had ever encountered. She was very good at what she did and didn’t seem to have any problem handing control to someone else. He wasn’t a natural sub, but he sure as hell didn’t mind handing the reins to someone else when the opportunity presented itself, and if this wasn’t a fucking golden opportunity, he wasn’t sure what would be. It felt good to be taken care of, to be tended to and cherished, looked after.

 

A noise by the door got his attention and he looked over to see Irene come in, speaking to someone outside. Kate, probably. He smiled at the sight of her in a sheer black robe that just about hit her thighs and...not much else, that he could tell right away. When she saw that he was awake, she matched his smile.

“Hello, John.”

“You’re fantastic, did you know that?”

“Mm. I’ve been called worse.” She closed the door and came to the bed, “It’s been ages since I had a man in bed who looked so happy to see me. You look rather thoroughly and happily fucked.”

“You must be chasing after the wrong sort of man, then.” He turned onto one side to study her. “Are you wearing anything besides that sinful robe?”

“Oh, you flatter.”

“I’m serious.”

“Would you like to find out?” She raised an eyebrow in challenge. “I should warn you, however, there is a schedule tonight.”

“Oh?”

“I have reservations for dinner at eight o’clock.”

“Hmm, I don’t suppose you’d like some company for these reservations, would you?”

“I’d love it.” She took the hand he held out to her, “Can I convince you to get dressed up for the occasion?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Come here, you naughty little thing.” He pulled until she joined him on the bed, and discovered that the robe was the only thing she was wearing. Fantastic. John smirked and rolled them so she was under him, opening the robe and taking in the smooth lines of her body. He smirked and kissed her before making his way down her body, re-familiarizing himself with the feel, taste, and smell.

“Hang onto something, darling.” He murmured as he reached his ultimate destination. He knew she was clean and had no qualms about going down on her for oral. They had stayed away from unprotected oral on his end until he could get tested, a simple and necessary precaution, but she had other ways to make him very happy indeed. And really, there was something to be said for condoms made for oral sex. Nothing of the sort was necessary for Irene, and John took great pleasure in reminding her that he had sort of earned his nickname and wasn’t called “Three Continents Watson” for kicks and giggles.

 

When he had her whining and thrashing, his work done properly, he licked her out and pulled that climax from her with skill and finesse. Her hands were tight in his hair, he was fairly certain she was calling him awful things, and he felt a little bad that her thighs would be quite red and a bit sore. He chuckled, causing her to make some strangled noise. Finally, he took mercy on her and pulled away. He kissed her on the stomach, giving her a sweet smile as he hopped off the bed.

“Shower?”

“You are a bad, bad man, Captain.”

“Oh, come now. Was it really so bad?” He held out one hand to her, “I warned you.”

“Bloody menace you are.” She grumbled, taking his hand and letting him pull her from the bed. They took a shower, taking time to tend to each other, and after they had dried off, got dressed for whatever the evening had in store.

 

When John saw the suit, he knew it was brand new, he didn’t own anything even remotely like it. But it wasn’t just a suit, it was tailored. It looked almost like something the Holmes brothers would have in their closets. He put on the trousers and dress-shirt, stunned that they fit and not only did they fit him now, but they would fit him if he ever gained back the weight he’d lost since Sherlock’s disappearance.

“You have to be joking.” He looked at his reflection and went to the en-suite, where Irene was getting ready.

“What is this?” He held up the jacket.

“That, dear, is a dinner jacket.”

“It’s tailored!”

“Of course it is! I’ve had your measurements since the first time we met, darling.” She just smiled at him. “There are dinner jackets and there are dinner jackets. That is the latter.”

“Christ. You sound like Vesper Lynd when you say that.” He huffed, shaking his head in wonder.

“Mm. I should.” Irene got up and came to him, taking the jacket from him, “She’s my cousin.”

“Your cousin. Of course, she’s your bloody cousin!” John rolled his eyes, “Only someone like that could handle James Bond!”

 

He had heard all about that little liaison and marvelled that there was someone in the world willing to put up with James Bond for more than the length of a standard field-assignment. He still wasn’t quite sure how Bond had rescued his lady, but they’d escaped the mess in Italy alive and disappeared for a while before resurfacing to hunt down and take apart the rest of a criminal network that gave Jim Moriarty’s lot a run for their money. Irene just smirked and gave the jacket a shake before she held it up for him. It was dark blue, nearly navy, with black trim. It matched the colour of the trousers, and like the rest of the get-up, it fit despite his weight-loss. He didn’t look homeless anymore, he looked a bit more like his old self, just...tired and older. And scruffier. Irene had offered to help him shave but refused to let him go clean-shaven so they had done with a clean-up and trim.

“I like this look on you.” She smiled over his shoulder as he admired his reflection in the mirror. “Handsome bloke in a suit makes a girl weak in the knees.”

“I don’t need to wear a suit to make you weak in the knees, dear.” John couldn’t help himself, and he chuckled at the blush that coloured her cheeks.

“Although, I do believe that is possibly the most modest thing I’ve seen you wear.” Meaning her dress, a very lovely, perfectly tailored sequin lace sheath dress with 3/4-sleeves, a high neckline and an alluring peek-a-boo keyhole bodice. The skirt came to her knees, and the only skin visible was at the keyhole and below the hemline, but the dress hugged every one of Irene’s curves in the best way. Not much was left to the imagination, but it was the perfect balance between flaunting her assets and showing a bit of modesty. She came around and adjusted his tie for him, smoothing the silk between her fingers. She ran her hands over his shoulders and down the length of his jacket, smoothing the fabric as she went, and John just smiled as she tugged on the waistband of his trousers.

“Shall we, my dear?” He inquired once she was satisfied with his state of dress.

“After you, Captain.” She smiled up at him and he took her hand. Kate waited for them in the lounge, handing out coats and other necessities. This included but was not limited to a clutch for Irene, John’s wallet, and, surprisingly, his Browning. The magazine had been reloaded for him and he took a moment to load it and chamber a round. He kept the safety engaged, but having it ready was comforting.

“Thank you, Kate.” He smiled at the woman, who must have kept herself busy while they were...indisposed.

“My pleasure, Captain.” She just returned his smile as she held the door for them. They found a taxi waiting outside the main doors, and Kate held the door for them.

“Have a lovely evening.”

“Thank you, Kate. Enjoy yourself tonight.” Irene gave Kate a kiss on the cheek and John watched her go back into the hotel once they were on their way.

“Kate’s off for the night, I take it?”

“Mmhm. Has a date lined up, if I’m not much mistaken.” Irene’s smile was content. “She’s earned it.”

“I’ll say. Do I want to know where she got access to a box of 9mm ammo and a conceal-carry holster for my Browning?”

“Probably not.” Irene just smiled and scrolled through something on her phone. “I hope you like French food.”

“I don’t mind it. I spent some time in France while I was stationed in Germany, years ago.” John smiled as he recalled that long-ago time. “I had a nurse under me who had family in Paris, spent holiday leave there. Lovely place.”

“Well, you’ve seen the world, haven’t you?” Irene looked over at him.

“I imagine we’ve seen some of the same places.” He sighed, “I’m...I’m glad Sherlock saved you.”

“I like to think that, in his own strange way, Sherlock saved us both.”

“You would not be wrong.” John looked over at Irene and reached across to take her hand. She just smiled and squeezed his hand.

 

When they got to the restaurant, he held the door for Irene and paid the fare. It was instinct to check his surroundings as he followed her to the door of the restaurant, holding the door for her to go ahead of him. No sign of trouble, but he couldn’t help looking for cameras. The chances Mycroft Holmes would be looking for him or care for his whereabouts and wellbeing were slim, but it never hurt to double-check. Once inside, they handed over their coats and Irene handed over her clutch. A hostess took them to the dining room and showed them a small table for two. But instead of sitting across from each other, they were seated beside each other in a curved booth that was quite cosily isolated from the main dining room but gave an ideal spot for people-watching. He could see but couldn’t quite be seen.

“Well, this is fancy.” He looked sideways at his date. “Bit different from my usual.”

“Is that bad?”

“Nope.” He smiled, “Not at all.” He watched the coming and going of wait-staff and patrons. A cheerful young man in the staff uniform approached their table and introduced himself as Andrew. He would have the pleasure of being their server for the evening, just let him know if they needed anything. To start off, Irene ordered a bottle of white wine, some vineyard in France John couldn’t pronounce the name of properly. Irene informed Andrew that they were going for the three-course meal option, and he just smiled brightly.

“Oh, fantastic! Any special occasions tonight?”

“Not particularly. Just friends out for a night on the town.” Irene smiled sweetly at Andrew, but that smile turned a bit wicked when she turned to John.

“Well, I hope it’s a good one! Thank you for choosing Roux at the Landau for your outing!” Andrew tucked his tray under one arm and left them alone, returning shortly to fill their water glasses and bring the wine. They ordered starters at that time, which would come out ahead of the mains and desserts. For mains, he picked out the safest dish he could see: Artichokes “à la Barigoule”, served with bulgur and turmeric emulsion. Irene ordered the quail, John admired her adventurous palate.

 

While they waited for the starters, they talked. Not so much about the recent past, but about everything else. Politics (they both agreed that the PM was a hack, but they were both rather fond of the Royal Family for their own reasons), religion (he was mostly atheist due to what he’d seen in the Army but still believed in a greater something, she was a lapsed Catholic), sports (turned out Irene was a secret fan of Manchester United and loved a good match when she could get time to watch one), and music.

“Sherlock always enjoyed tormenting the violin, sometimes it was music sometimes it was noise.” John chuckled, “Oh, but the music that man could play.”

“He was rather good at it, wasn’t he?” Irene smiled sadly, “Do you miss that?”

“Yeah, more than I thought I would.” He sighed and took a sip of wine. “Y’know, he used to play this one piece of music every time I had a nightmare? I’m not sure if he knew that I was aware of it, but it was just this absolutely lovely piece of music that he never seemed to play any other time. Sometimes he’d sit outside my door and play me back to sleep.”

“Do you think Sherlock loved you, John?”

“I think he did, he just never…said it.” John shrugged. “I don’t know if someone like Sherlock Holmes is capable of that sort of emotion.”

“Well, he was certainly nicer to you than he was to anyone else.”

“Because I’d scold him if he was mean to people for no good reason. The rest of us were idiots compared to him, and he never missed a chance to remind us.” He took a sip of water. “Not to mention, I had no qualms about beating sense into him if I had to. And he knew that.”

“You really are one of a kind, John.” Irene leaned towards him, brushed her fingers against his on the table-top, “Sherlock Holmes was a lucky bastard.”

“He had his moments, though. And I think I’m the lucky one.” He turned his hand over and took her hand in his. “Thank you, Irene.”

“For what?”

“Everything you’ve done today.” He sighed and looked out over the dining-room beyond them, catching sight of Andrew coming their way with a tray. “I know you’re the one who paid my bail. You didn’t have to do that for me.”

“Of course I did. Mycroft Holmes wasn’t going to bother, he would have let you sit there and rot for six months if he could get away with it.”

“Huh.” John snorted. She wasn’t quite wrong about that, but John didn’t care to think about Sherlock’s insufferable older brother at the moment. After delivering their starters, Andrew asked if they had any needs, and disappeared when they reassured him that they did not.

 

The isolated nature of their table came in handy when John spotted someone he knew well enough to dread the outcome if they called him out in a public place like this. That meant they would have to see him first, make eye contact at a minimum, and recognize him. He didn’t much look like himself at the moment, which might just be in his favour.

“What is it, John?” Irene had noticed him tense up. “Who did you see?”

“Speak of the devil, Mycroft is here.” He kept his voice down, “He brought a date, it seems.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.” John could see the couple from their table, seated at another booth adjacent. Irene found them and raised an eyebrow.

“That’s Molly Hooper, isn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“Well, huh.” A sly chuckle, “That girl has high taste, doesn’t she?”

“It seems she does, and apparently got more than a few pining looks from him to boot.” He could see the couple better than Irene and kept tabs on them for the rest of the evening. It didn’t seem either Mycroft or Molly had recognized him, which was probably a good thing.

* * *

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	4. Evening Choices Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date-night out on the town. Irene's a high-class gal and John's a lucky man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of 2

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* * *

When the evening concluded, John was tipsy, had eaten well, and was ready to get out of the suit and into bed. Not that he didn’t like dressing up, but he had had quite enough of higher society for one night, thanks. After Irene paid the bill, she wouldn’t let John even look at it, they collected their coats at the front and went out to the waiting taxi. John made eye-contact with Mycroft as they passed through the dining-room on their way out, didn’t say anything to him, simply exchanged a nod with the man.

“What are you smiling at?” Irene had noticed his mood and took his hand. He chuckled.

“Oh, I’m just wondering how long it’s going to take before Mycroft sicks his PA on us to find out who your mystery date was tonight. I know he didn’t recognize me at all.”

“Are you so sure of that?”

“Almost a hundred percent.” He shrugged and bundled up against the cool weather. “It will probably take a few weeks, I imagine, since there’s no record of us having a thing to do with each other beyond the royal appointment. And they’re not going to be looking for someone like me.”

“I imagine it could take quite a while.” Irene smiled as he handed her into the cab, “Kate is dating Anthea.”

“Oh, you don’t say!” John didn’t know why he wasn’t surprised to hear that. “Well, that’s good luck for us! She’ll be good for throwing the scent, won’t she?”

“Oh, quite.” That was a very satisfied, smug woman sitting next to him. John chuckled and took her hand. The drive back to...wherever they were going went quietly.

 

When the taxi came to a stop, John got out first and helped Irene onto the pavement. He looked to see where they were as he paid the fare, the drive hadn’t been quite long enough to take them back to the hotel, and raised an eyebrow when he recognized the house.

“Well, well.” He didn’t particularly care where he stayed tonight, considering he didn’t _have_ somewhere else to stay. His lease at his last place had run out a week before he got arrested and all of his things were in storage until he found a new place to live. He suspected he could live in Baker Street again, Mrs Hudson had hinted more than once that she would be happy to have him as a tenant again if he ever needed somewhere to live. He had never taken her up on that offer, but knowing he had somewhere to go if he needed it was nice.

“John.” Irene’s voice distracted him and he turned to find her standing in the open door of the house. “Are you coming inside, or are you just going to stand there all night?”

“Coming, dear.” He stepped away from the kerb and followed her into the house. She let him in and took his coat.

“Would you like anything to drink?”

“Mm. I think...tea, perhaps?” The idea of drinking more alcohol didn’t seem like a good one, but tea was always a good option. Irene smiled and took him by the hand, leading him to the kitchen. Now, if there was one thing John was good at, it was making tea. And having been in this kitchen once before, he knew his way around the place. So, it was almost without thought that he nudged Irene out of the way and took over.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I know my way around this kitchen, and if there’s one thing I happen to be good at, it’s tea. Allow me.” He just gave her a sweet smile and set about preparing tea. Irene gave him a kiss and let him do his thing, disappearing into another part of the house. While the kettle boiled, John took a chance to shed a couple of layers, removing his jacket and tie, loosening the collar buttons of his shirt and rolling the sleeves back.

 

When the kettle went off, he poured two cups and dropped a teabag of chamomile in each and let it steep for five minutes. He would have gone for Earl Grey or Constant Comment, but he felt like unwinding a bit and chamomile was excellent for the cause. Once the tea was ready, he went in search of Irene and found her upstairs.

“Irene?”

“In here, dear!” Ah, she was in the bathroom. He smiled and set her cup down on the bedside table. There were hangars on the bed, for his suit. He carefully removed and hung everything up properly, trading the trousers for a pair of pyjama bottoms that looked suspiciously familiar.

“Are these mine?” He held them up curiously.

“Mm. I had Kate stop by your storage unit and retrieve a few things for tonight. There’s a week’s worth of clothes in my closet for you as well, I know you don’t have anywhere to stay.”

“I should look into finding somewhere to live, I can’t...well, I can’t impose on your hospitality indefinitely.” He wasn’t going to put up much of a fight, but he really didn’t want to inconvenience Irene and overstay an uncertain welcome. She had paid his way out of jail, given him some of the greatest sex he could remember, offered him a place to stay for one night or several, but...John was unsure about how _long_ he would be welcome or even comfortable in her house. She was nothing like any of the women he had dated before or had anything to do with, and she was the first legitimate dominatrix he had actually encountered.

“You get out of your head, Captain. Right now.” She had come out of the bathroom in a familiar black robe, he suspected she wore nothing beneath as before, and watched him from a perch on the other side of the bed.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re what?” An eyebrow went up and John took a deep breath. Oh. Oh, she was clever, wasn’t she? Smart woman. He took a sip of tea and swallowed slowly, savouring the slight burn. And the thrill that stirred in his gut.

“I’m sorry, Miss Adler.” He amended quietly, once he was able to do so.

“That’s better.” She smiled, not enough to reach her eyes, but there was a softness to her smile, to her demeanour. She patted the bed in invitation and John sat down carefully.

“Now finish your tea like a good boy and go finish getting ready for bed. I’ll be waiting here for you.” She said calmly, setting her tea aside in favour of picking up a book he hadn’t noticed before.

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He sighed and it was quiet for a few minutes while she read and he drank the tea. Once his cup was empty, and hers as well, he took them and rinsed them out in the bathroom sink, setting them on the tray outside the door. She didn’t tell him to do that, he just...did it. It seemed the proper thing to do.

“Rosemary will collect those in the morning.” Irene said as she turned a page, not looking up from her book. “Rosemary is my housekeeper. You didn’t meet her the last time you were visiting.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “I didn’t say anything?”

“You didn’t have to, my dear. The question was clear as day on your face.”

“Oh.” Was he an open book to everyone else? Or just to a few people who knew how to read him at all?

“Go, Captain.” She looked up finally and pointed to the en-suite. John sighed and went to finish getting ready for the night, whatever was left of it and whatever came of it.

 

After wasting as much time as he felt was safe, John returned to the bedroom. He found Irene the same way he’d left her, but the covers had been folded back to the foot of the bed and there were a few items laid out that hadn’t been there before, arranged on an antique-looking silver tray. John recognized most of the implements _on_ the tray, had used some of them in past encounters.

“Do you know what these are, Captain?” Irene caught him looking at the tray.

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He said softly.

“Have you used them before?”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“These are the tools I will use for you, with your consent. Over the course of this next week, I want you to write up a contract with your hard-limit items, mid-limit items, and soft-limit items. Write down your safe-words, memorize them for use whenever you feel the need.” She picked up one of the implements and studied it, John swallowed hard. Oh Christ. Sherlock had used handcuffs, blindfolds, and the riding crop on John more than once, until now the only other person ever allowed to do that to him. They had an agreement, and occasionally traded places on who subbed for whom. Out of instinct he hadn’t acted on in almost two years, John dropped to his knees without a word. He listened to the way Irene reacted, keeping his head down and his eyes closed, remaining perfectly still the way Sherlock had always had him kneel.

“Oh, you are an obedient one, aren’t you? I didn’t say a word.” Her voice was a soft, husky purr.

“You...didn’t have to, Miss Adler.” He said quietly

“I’m not the first, am I?”

“No, Miss Adler.”

“Hm. You still need to unwind, or you’ll never sleep.” He heard the rustle of fabric as she got up from the bed and selected something from the tray. The rattle of metal was all John needed to hear to know she’d picked up handcuffs. He listened as she moved the tray and possibly rearranged the pillows. A hand came to rest on the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his hair and tightening just a bit.

“You like having your hair stroked and played with, like having it pulled.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He breathed, knowing she’d already figured that out and made bloody good use of it besides.

“I’ll remember that. Now, your eyes are closed. Keep them that way until I tell you.” She had two items in her hands, the handcuffs and something else. “Give me your right hand.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He offered her one hand as requested and she pressed something against his palm. Silk? She commanded him to figure out what she had given him and he used both hands to do so. It was a length of either silk or satin, about three feet long. A tie-back blindfold. After giving him adequate time to make out the item in his hands, Irene took it from John and told him to be completely still. Obedient as ever to the person who held power, he remained still until she told him he could move.

“You remember where the bed is?”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“Move onto it and lay down comfortably. I will move you as I need you.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” And using his memory of where the bed was relative to his position, John got up and made his way onto the bed properly, manoeuvring to lay down in what seemed to be the approximate middle. She had a king bed, and he knew he was close enough when stretching his arms out didn’t reach the edges. Once he was in position, John waited for her to make the next move, hands resting at his sides. He had to depend on his other senses, on touch, smell, and hearing, now that his sight had been compromised. How did she know? Had she spoken to Sherlock about this? Or was she simply guessing? Did it really matter? She was taking care of him, he had no reason to question anything. So, he didn’t. Instead, he focused on Irene and what she was doing to him. It started with handcuffs, one hand at a time, which was then attached to a tether concealed at the head of the bed.

“Is that alright?”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He nodded, there was a bit more of a stretch than he was used to in his shoulders, but it didn’t hurt.

“If your shoulder begins to give you any trouble, you must tell me. That is one of _my_ non-negotiables.” She put one hand on his chest, close to the scar that had seen him dismissed from military service, “I’m here to take care of you, I can’t do that if you don’t tell me when you’re in pain.”

“I understand, Miss Adler.” John did understand, it had been a concern of Sherlock’s as well. He let her have her way with him, trusting she would be gentle as she worked. And she was gentle. He only had her stop twice, but when she put on a condom, he reminded himself to breathe. He would sleep very well tonight, that went without saying.

“How do you want me to finish you, Captain?” She asked, breath warm against his ear, rubbing her cheek against his and putting teeth to soft flesh at his earlobe. He jerked against the restraints and hoped to god the noise he heard was just in his head.

“Oh, come now, Captain.” A dangerous chuckle, “Use your words, like a good boy.”

“Fuck.”

“Well, I was planning to.” her hands were gentle against his thighs, his hips, “Use your words. How would you like it?” How on earth was he supposed to use words when his brain wasn’t even properly functioning? Christ, she was good at her job. He couldn’t reach for her, he couldn’t see her, it was maddening, and now speech had failed him. Tugging on the slack in the tether, he tried to come up with a way to ask for it.

“John?” Irene’s voice was soft in his ear. “What do you want?” Something in his brain fired off and he took a deep breath in. He would never again forget the way she smelled, he decided. He had seen the perfume bottle on the dressing-table, seen the label, and would never again see a bottle of Chopard Casmir Eau du Parfum or smell it without thinking of Irene.

“Take me.” He found his voice. “However you bloody well want me.”

“Do you trust me, John?”

“Yes, yes I do.” _I probably shouldn’t trust you, but I do._ He took another deep breath in and let it out slowly. He didn’t have to see her face to know that Irene was smiling, he just knew. She laid one hand against his cheek, something she seemed to like doing, and he waited.

“Would you like me to kiss you, John?”

“Oh, please?” He’d be damned if that came out as a whine.

“My pleasure.” She touched noses with him. “And yours.” Then, God bless her, she made good on the promised kiss. John had always enjoyed kissing, had fancied himself to be rather good at it, but there was just something about kissing Irene that was...well, he wasn’t sure yet, but he found it rather satisfying. When she left him, he tried to follow, but she put her hand against his jaw and made a soft sound.

“Let me take care of you, dear.” She murmured, kissing where her hand laid and then moving down, down, down. Bleeding hell, she was really going to finish him off properly, wasn’t she? Twice in one night? Well, wasn’t he just a lucky bastard? John let out an unsteady moan as she got busy. Christ, she was good at _that_ too, far better than any of his exes. He wrapped his hands around the tether, hanging on for lack of a better handhold and unable to reach for Irene, who heard the handcuffs rattling and chuckled.

“Bloody Christ.” He whispered as the vibrations sent sparks shooting along every nerve and then some. Between his exhaustion, his state of arousal (which was not insignificant), and Irene’s skill, it wasn’t very long before John was shooting off a load into the condom. He might have made a noise, but he wasn’t sure about that.

 

It was really only when she removed the restraints that he was aware of anything else. Irene was there, watching him come back online, and as his eyes opened, she smiled, one hand running through his hair.

“Hello, John.”

“Hello, Irene.” He smiled and reached for her, finally able and allowed to touch. There were obvious abrasion-marks on his wrists, and his thighs and groin were damp. Her cheeks and lips were cool to touch and he tasted mint when she kissed him. Mouthwash? Of course she would have. John sighed into the kiss, feeling a familiar heaviness overcome him.

“I’ve got you, my love. Go to sleep.” Irene murmured, kissing him on the cheek.

“Stay?” He begged, hand tightening on some part of her body. “Please stay.” 

“If you’d like me to stay.”

“Your house, your bed. Stay, please stay.” He whispered, as if afraid she would leave him regardless of his wishes. 

“Very well. I’ll stay for you.” She pulled away just long enough to pull the blankets back up into position so they wouldn’t get cold. Then she was back, a warm presence alongside, there to keep him company as he slept. John turned onto his side and pulled on her hand until her arm was around his waist, linking her fingers through his. They wouldn’t stay like that, but she let him do it, let him be clingy and affectionate as he fell asleep. He appreciated that. John was out on the next exhale, and it was lovely to fall asleep in a quiet, uncrowded room.

* * *

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	5. Cruelty Of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the angst bit, so proceed with caution. Arya, my love, this one's all yours.  
> ::  
> Mentions of suicide, suicidal thoughts. See new tags! They're up there for a reason, people.

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Somehow, John slept until nine the following morning, waking to find the bed empty. That seemed to happen rather a lot, didn’t it? He rolled onto his back and sighed, tucking one hand under his head, the other came to rest on his stomach.

“You’re either an idiot or a genius.” He murmured to himself. Taking up with the likes of Irene Adler was risky enough, this was more than just a simple business arrangement. He knew that, she knew that, and the sooner they made peace with that, the better.

 

Finally, driven by his growling stomach, John shuffled out of bed. He made his way to the en-suite but did not void his bladder. Something told him a chunk of his time would be occupied in a doctor’s office or somewhere similar, so ... best not be hasty. After washing his hands, John headed downstairs to the kitchen and found Irene and Kate at the little breakfast table. A woman of mixed descent (he suspected South/Central American and Eastern European just by the look of her) was at the range, fixing breakfast. That must be Rosemary, their housekeeper.

“Good morning, John!” Irene smiled at him, “Sit down!”

“Thank you.” He sat down and leaned his head against his hand, looking across at his kind hostess. She looked rather pleased with herself, and John had a pretty good idea why.

“You have a very pretty smile, did you know that?” He couldn’t help himself, and when Irene blushed, he smiled. Smooth, wasn’t he? Kate just rolled her eyes at them.

“Do you have to flirt at the breakfast table?”

“Wasn’t aware of it.” He hardly looked at Kate, who made some noise.

“No shame, is there?”

“Not unless there needs to be, ma’am.”

“Boy, you’re a real treat, Watson! I like you!”

“Alright, enough talking. It’s time to eat!” Rosemary interrupted them, setting plates down at their seats, “And you! You are _far_ too skinny! Eat more!” This was to John as she gave him a long look and frowned.

“Yes, ma’am.” John just smiled at the kind woman, she looked to be about Mrs Hudson’s age, and picked up his fork.

 

Breakfast was quiet and pleasant, he listened to the girls talk about plans for the day and beyond. Rosemary sang softly to herself in some foreign tongue as she bustled around the small but spacious kitchen. Once he had eaten enough to satisfy Irene’s fussy housekeeper, John went to take a shower. He decided to shave again but still didn’t go completely clean-shaven. There was something about the anonymity a beard gave him that he liked.

 

As he stood under the hot water, he debated going to a clinic for the STD/STI testing. That would offer another layer of anonymity. Most clinics that offered such testing accepted false names, he wouldn’t even have to tell them his name was John Watson. And he didn’t look much like himself, so it wasn’t very likely anyone would actually recognize him. They certainly hadn’t last night, he’d made eye-contact with Mycroft sodding Holmes for Christ’s sake and the man had barely flinched. Or could he go to someone else, someone he knew and knew him? But that ... that risked a bit he may not be willing to surrender to public knowledge right away. And it required him to visit Saint Bart’s, which he hadn’t been to in almost two years. He wasn’t sure he could walk into that hospital without remembering what had happened the _last_ time he’d been there.

 

By the time he’d gotten dressed in denims and a button-down, he still hadn’t made up his mind. When he found Irene and Kate waiting for him, he just shrugged. Well, better get this over with, the sooner he got a clean bill back, the better. Taking his coat from Irene, he made sure he had everything and decided to get on his way.

“Are you coming?” He looked at Irene, who was more or less dressed for the day. She just smiled and shook her head.

“I’m afraid my morning is rather firmly booked. Kate will take you wherever you need to go.”

“Right.” He breathed out slow, this was not something he needed her present for, really. But some company would be _nice_ if he ended up at Barts. Well, he couldn’t demand all of her time, could he? That was selfish of him and he wasn’t even sure what kind of relationship he had or wanted with her.

“Come along, Doctor Watson.” Kate held the door for him and he followed her out to the street. She held the door of the car for him and got in the front seat.

“So, where am I taking you?” She looked over her shoulder at him as they set off.

“Um.” He looked out the window. “Saint Bart’s, please?”

“Of course.” Kate didn’t seem surprised by the request, or was very good at hiding it if she was, “Would you like the divider up, Doctor?”

“Yes, please.”

“Knock if you need anything, sir. There’s water in the centre console.” She rolled up the divider and left him in peace. He tried not to remember the last time he’d been to Saint Bart's, what had happened there, the last thing he’d said to Sherlock in person. The last in-person conversation the two of them had before ... before everything went to hell. The awful phone call from ... someone, he didn’t know who it was, informing him that Mrs Hudson had been shot. The panic, the urge to run.

 

***

_“What is it?” Sherlock asked in a carefully bored tone of voice as John ended the call he’d just taken._

_“Paramedics. Mrs Hudson – she’s been shot.” John had no idea how he got the words together, but he did._

_“What?” Well, that got Sherlock’s attention. “How?”_

_“Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract ... Jesus. Jesus.” John was frantic, up on his feet, exhaustion forgotten, “She’s dying, Sherlock! Let’s go!” He turned towards the door to the lab they’d been holed up in for what felt like hours._

_“You go.” Sherlock said with a disinterested wave, “I’m busy.”_

_“Busy?” John turned back towards him, appalled._

_“Thinking. I need to think.”_

_“You need to ... ?” John was baffled by this. “Doesn’t she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her!”_

_“She’s my landlady. Not my mother.” All that got him was a shrug._

_“She’s dying and ... ” He trailed off, himself in utter disbelief at Sherlock’s attitude._

_“This is all just a bloody game to you, isn’t it?! You don’t ... You machine.” He spat, furious. He looked down, shaking his head._

_“Sod this. Sod this.” He headed towards the door. “You stay here if you want, on your own.”_

_“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.” Sherlock said quietly._

_“No. Friends protect people.” He snarled, storming out and leaving Sherlock behind. The sound of the door slamming shut behind him seemed so ominous, so final, but he was too distracted to think clearly. All he knew was he had to get back to Baker Street._

***

 

The sound of a car door opening, a hand on his arm, got John out of his head and he looked to see where they were.

“Oh.”

“Saint Barts, Doctor?” Kate watched him carefully, “Are you alright, sir?”

“Yeah. I’m…uh, I’m fine. Thank you, Kate.” He got out and stood on the pavement, refusing the urge to look up.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Doctor Watson?”

“I’m fine, Kate.”

“Do you need me to stay, sir?”

“No, I don’t. You can … go. I’ll find a cab.”

“Well, here.” Kate gave him a card, putting it in his hand when he wouldn’t take it. “Call that number, I’ll come get you. Have someone call me.”

“Right. Thanks.” He took a deep breath and waited until she was gone. As soon as the car was out of sight, John dared to look up. And up again. No, this was the wrong angle. Where had he … oh, wait, the ambulance station, that’s right. Steeling himself, and wondering what the hell was wrong with him, John walked along the pavement, sticking to the footpath, until he reached the point where he could look directly across at the north corner of the ambulance station. Crossing the street, which wasn’t terribly busy right now, he stopped right about where he thought he might have stood that awful, awful day. Turning around, John looked up and found the rooftop, where he remembered seeing Sherlock for the last time. Oh, Christ.

 

With a sickness in his gut, John got into the hospital, but instead of looking for Molly Hooper, he broke into the stairwell and climbed, refusing to count the stairs or look over the railings. What was he doing? Why was he doing this? He got up onto the roof and walked right up to the edge, climbed onto the ledge, and … looked down on a four-story drop. Oh, Christ, Sherlock had fallen from here, and he had watched.

 _“I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It’s a trick. Just a magic trick ... No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move ... Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me? ... This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note? ... Goodbye, John.”_ Sherlock’s last words echoed in his head as he looked down and realized how far away they had been from each other that day. In his head, John saw Sherlock falling, caught in a moment of absolute terror, the sound of a body hitting the pavement, trying to reach Sherlock, to … touch, to reassure.

 

It wasn’t until he heard sirens on the street below that he jolted out of his daze. Looking down again, he spotted three cars. Well, four, actually. Three marked cars and one unmarked, silver. What on earth? It wasn’t very likely anyone on the street below had spotted him up here, Molly didn’t know he was here, and … oh, wait a minute. Looking down, drawn by a pain in his fingers, John realized he was holding his phone in one hand. He hadn’t called anyone, had he? Lifting his phone, he blinked through the tears to look at the screen. There was one text, sent to … not Sherlock.

 

**Saint Barts. Come at once. Danger Night. Help me. – JWA**

 

Who had he texted? Not Irene, that wasn’t her number. Not Kate. Then, his phone rang. He looked at it for a minute and just … put it in his pocket. He leaned his head back and spread his arms, wondering if this is what Sherlock had felt like.

 _Don’t jump. You’re not suicidal, and this is temporary. This is grief, it will pass._ A voice in his head sounded an awful lot like Irene, and John let out a long, sad sound. His phone rang again, this time he decided he might as well answer it.

_“H-hello?”_

_“John! Thank fucking Christ! For the love of god, do not jump! Do you hear me?! Don’t you take another step! Back away!”_ He wasn’t certain, but John thought it was Greg Lestrade. _“Do you understand me, John? Step away from that ledge! Don’t you fucking jump! Don’t you dare!”_

 _“Greg?”_ He blinked, _“Lestrade?”_

 _“Get down from there or so help me! John, I’m coming up there! Stay where you are!”_ One of the figures gathered below suddenly broke into a run. John dropped his phone and stepped back, stumbling as he missed his footing. He was sitting on the concrete, staring at … nothing in particular, when the door to the stairwell crashed open.

“John! Are you fucking insane? Are you out of your mind?”

“Greg?” He looked up and saw Greg Lestrade, who looked like he’d run every single flight of stairs. “What are you doing here?”

“You texted me, you idiot! What the fuck are you doing up here? What were you _thinking_?”

“I don’t … I don’t know. I … didn’t mean to.” He put his head down, “I wasn’t going to jump, I promise.”

“I don’t believe you for a fucking minute. I can’t tell if your drunk or high, or neither. Get up, I’m taking you to see Molly.”

“’Kay.” John let Greg help him stand up, “Please don’t take me in, Greg. Please?”

“I wasn’t planning on it. You just got out of there yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Y-yeah. Sorry. About this.”

“Come on, son, one foot in front of the other. Is there someone I can call for you? Your sister?”

“Nope. Well … not my sister.” He put one arm around Greg’s shoulders, “You’re a good friend, Greg.”

“I’ve got to keep you from trying to follow Sherlock’s bad examples, you’re worthless dead, I hope you know that.”

“Sort of.” He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. “Must think me a moron.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the first time I’ve had to come to talk you out of your own head. Jesus Christ, John, give me a fucking heart attack.”

“Sorry.”

“Alright, come on, you. Let’s see if Molly’s around.” Greg let him out of the stairwell and they went to find Molly Hooper, who was in her office and willing to help them out.

“John! Greg! What can I do for you?” She looked about as surprised to see them as Greg had been panicked to find John standing on the rooftop ledge a few minutes ago.

“Need some testing, Molly.” Greg looked at John, “I found this idiot contemplating mortality on your rooftop a minute ago. Can you run some panels for me, please?”

“Yeah, sure! I can do that! What do you need?”

“Narcotics, recreationals, can’t think of anything else.”

“STIs/STDs, please, Molly?” John piped in quietly. “Not that I was ever bothered in jail, but … ”

“Oh, sure. Better safe than sorry! Here, give me a minute.” Molly smiled and gave him a quick hug before she disappeared. When she came back, she had a tray with several items on it.

“What’s … what’s this for?” He took the sterile cup curiously.

“Urine testing. Dirty catch. You haven’t voided today yet?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Right. Bathroom, come back when you’re done with it.” Molly pointed him in the right direction, Greg followed him and stood guard with his back to John while he did his business. Once he had a decent sample, about half the cup’s worth, he finished up and went to wash his hands properly. Greg took the cup and slid it into a specimen/evidence bag, handling it with gloves.

“Travel prepared, don’t you?”

“Damn straight I do. Come on, you, let’s get this back to Molly.” Greg took the sealed bag after washing his hands, giving the top of the bag a swipe, and led the way back to Molly’s office. Molly took the sealed bag from Greg and pointed John to a nearby chair.

“This is the not-so-fun part, John. I’m sorry if I hurt you.” She picked up the blood-collection kit and set to work. John shrugged and gave up his left arm. He knew Molly and Greg saw the bracelet abrasions, probably knew what they were from, and suspected they just assumed it was from his time in jail. That was alright, he wanted them to think that.

“Molly?”

“Hmm?” She lifted her head but didn’t look at him, focused on what she was doing. He hissed a bit when she made the initial puncture. She was good at it and did a bang-up job better than some nurses, and he watched, idly intrigued by the process.

“H-how are you doing?”

“Oh. I’m… fine. Thank you. Why do you ask?”

“You look…happier. Are you dating anyone these days?”

“Well, yeah. I am.” He’d be damned if she didn’t blush. He smiled.

“Hope he treats you right.”

“Oh, he’s wonderful. He’s smart, funny, I think he’s handsome but he doesn’t.”

“I thought you were dating Mycroft.” Greg frowned, “You two haven’t…”

“Oh, no! No, Greg, we’re still together.” Now Molly _did_ blush, “No, I tried…and he…well, he came after me and talked sense into me.”

“Oh, so you _are_ dating Mycroft Holmes.” John smiled a bit softer, “That’s what I thought.”

“Oh, John, were you…I mean, I don’t want to assume…but, you weren’t at Roux last night by any chance, were you?” Molly looked up as she drew the last sample.

“Yes, I was. And I did see you, I wasn’t sure if you’d seen _me_ , though.”

“I thought I had, but I wasn’t…sure. I didn’t recognize you at all until right as you were leaving.”

“What were _you_ doing at a place like Roux? Which one did you go to?” Greg was intrigued by this, curious for some gossip.

“Roux at The Landau.” John and Molly said it at the same time. Before he could ask any more nosy questions, Greg’s phone rang and he stepped out after apologizing, rolling his eyes for a call from work. The minute he was out of earshot, John looked at Molly.

“Don’t say anything, please? Not to anyone else.”

“How did you _meet_ her, John?”

“She paid my bail yesterday. I don’t know why, but she did. I stayed at hers last night. I don’t want Mycroft to know right away, so please don’t tell him?”

“Oh, I won’t! I promise. But he’ll find out anyway.”

“Let him find out the hard way.” John sighed and made a face as she removed the needle. After bandaging the wound-site, she rolled his sleeves down again and promised to process everything right away. She would have the results tomorrow, the day after at the latest. Greg returned, pocketing his phone and wearing a vaguely annoyed look.

“Duty calls?” John asked, tugging on the cuff of his shirt.

“Yeah, but I had them give it to Dimmock. I sent the lads on their way and told them to holler if they really do need me, I’m sticking around here until someone comes to get you.” Greg looked at John, eyes narrow. “Are you _sure_ there isn’t anyone I can call for you, John? Someone to come pick you up?”

“I can take a cab, it’s fine.”

“Bollocks. Let me call someone to give you a ride.” He held out one hand, “I’d offer if I thought you’d accept, but I don’t even know where you’re staying right now, if you’ve got a place.”

“I have somewhere to stay for a while, don’t worry about me.” He handed Greg Kate’s card. “Call that number, they’ll come get me.”

“Right.” Greg looked at the card and retrieved his phone. This would be an interesting call to listen in on. Greg dialled the number John had given him and politely put it on speaker. John wasn’t going to say anything, but he appreciated the courtesy. The call rang out a few times and finally picked up.

 _“Hello?”_ Kate answered and John looked at Molly, who just smiled and took his hand.

 _“Hi, yeah. This is Greg Lestrade, Met Homicide. I was given this number as a point of contact for John Watson?”_ Oh, _great_.

 _“Oh. Yes, of course, Inspector. Is...Doctor Watson alright?”_ God bless Kate, she sounded rather calm for the matter.

_“Yeah, he’s fine. I’ve got him here at Barts. He...uh, sent me a text. We’re friends, see, and I came right over as soon as I heard from him. It’s been a while, you understand.”_

_“Of course, Inspector. Is he in trouble?”_

_“No, ma’am. He’s fine, I have him down in the pathology labs. If someone could come and get him for me, I’ll get on my way and let him get onto his.”_

_“Absolutely. I’ll be right over.”_ Kate was very professional about this, but John would be an idiot if he thought she wasn’t going to go find Irene and bring her up to speed on things. _“If you don’t mind me asking, Inspector, where, exactly, did you find him?”_

_“Up on the roof, contemplating mortality. He’s absolutely fine, I swear. I’ve had him evaluated by Doctor Hooper.”_

_“Oh. Thank you, Inspector. Are you going to stay with him?”_

_“Until you or someone comes to fetch him.”_

_“We’re on our way, sir. We’ll be there shortly. Give me...forty-five minutes?”_

_“Sure. I’ll have him ready for pick-up when you get here.”_ Greg looked at John with an expression he was, unfortunately, familiar with. It was rare _he_ got it, usually Sherlock was the one getting that particular look, but he’d earned it soundly. After hanging up with Kate, Greg pocketed his phone.

“Well, I don’t know who that was, but she seems suitably concerned.”

“She would be,” John said mildly. Irene would be rather annoyed with him, he guessed, God help them if Kate went to fetch her before coming to Bart’s. Kate _would_ , though, he knew it was inevitable. Well, best face the consequences, whatever they were.

“I don’t know about you, but I haven’t eaten in a couple of days.”

“Sure.” John wasn’t exactly starving, but he supposed it would do to eat something. Worst case, he could keep Greg company. So, John and Greg headed for the canteen.

“I’ll get these running and join you in a few, if that’s okay with you?” Molly was holding a tray with the specimens for testing.

“Fine with me.” John suspected it was better if he had more company.

“Great! I’ll see you in a bit!” Molly smiled brightly and saw them off. John followed Greg, keeping his thoughts to himself.

“I don’t have to ask how you’re doing, I just pulled you off the roof.” Greg muttered, “I realize three marked cars might have been a bit overkill.”

“I’m sorry, Greg. I know you’re busy, you have better things to do than babysit me.” John sighed, hands in his pockets. “I didn’t mean to alarm anyone. I didn’t even...I didn’t mean to come here, y’know?”

“What were you doing here, anyway? You haven’t set foot on this campus in eighteen months.”

“I figured it would do me well to get tested for STIs and STDs after the time I spent in jail.”

“But you were only there for a month?”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s for my own peace of mind.” John shrugged, “I mean, on the very rare outside chance I find someone willing to date me, I’d rather not worry about infecting them.”

“Always the careful one, aren’t you?” Greg smiled, “Even with Sherlock, you were bloody picky about it.”

“Had to be. You saw the places we worked in, the things we did?” John took it as a good sign that talking about Sherlock didn’t make him sad again. “For god’s sake, the things he put into his body? No way I was touching that without protection.”

“Smart.” Greg nodded, “So, I don’t suppose you _have_ someone in mind, do you? I mean, you’ve dated a few people since 2011, but...you never seemed to take it all that seriously.”

“I did, but only until I realized they weren’t interested in _me_ , they were interested in fixing me.” He saw the look Greg gave him and rolled his eyes, “I don’t need to be fixed, not the way they’re thinking. Yes, I need help, I’ll be the first person to admit that, but I don’t need to be _fixed_. I’m not a pet project.” Irene would have something to say about that, of course, but she had more than fixing him in mind. She was interested in helping him heal, giving him what he needed, in taking care of him the way so few people could. And he was willing to let her, to fully submit to her if she asked him to.

 

When they got to the canteen, John picked out something to eat and got a cup of coffee. He wasn’t starving, but he figured it was safe to eat. Once they had their trays, Greg paid, they found a table.

“Hey, Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t...have a notebook handy, do you?” John was thinking it might be a good idea to start working on that contract Irene wanted him to write up.

“Yeah, sure I do. Want me to get it for you?”

“Yeah, I just need some paper and a biro. I have some, uh, homework.”

“Homework?”

“Just a list I need to get on paper.”

“Oh, yeah, no problem. Be right back.” Greg smiled, bless him for not asking questions, and disappeared. He returned with Molly in tow and slid a notepad and biro across the table to John.

“Thanks, Greg.”

“No problem. This something your therapist suggested?”

“Uh. Yeah.” Might as well let him think that. “Said I should start blogging again, keep a record of my thoughts.”

“Have you been?”

“Yeah, but it’s not really great reading material.” He shrugged and flipped to a clean page. He marked the top of the page with his initials and the date and started writing. Once he started writing, it didn’t take long for the words to flow. Getting his limit lists on paper was...therapeutic, almost. He knew his limits in each category and got them down quickly. Then he started writing out terms of engagement. He’d done this same thing for Sherlock, they’d written out, printed, and notarized a contract for their relationship, he could probably reuse the contract for Irene. But writing out what he wanted, what he was willing to surrender, what he expected as punishment for acting out, was kind of liberating.

 

He had the lists done by the time they were finished eating, and two pages of the contract itself written by the time Kate arrived. By then, they were back in Molly’s office, John had texted Kate to let her know that’s where he was holed up. John knew she had stopped along the way to pick up Irene, and knew better than to think his domme would stay behind while Kate made the pick-up. So, when the door of Molly’s office crashed open, it wasn’t so much the sound as it was the sight that startled him.

“Captain Watson, what exactly did you think you were doing?” Oh, Irene was mad. Kate had left out none of the details she had gotten from Greg, which was smart of her.

“Oh, Christ.” Greg blinked in alarm at the sight of the very angry woman standing in the doorway. Molly squeaked, startled by the commotion. John made some soft sound. He was in big trouble. He’d seen that look on Sherlock’s face a few times when he did something foolish and suspected the punishment would be similar. He could handle it, he would welcome it. He had earned it soundly, and so much more than he felt willing to ask for.

“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m...very sorry, Miss Adler.”

“We’ll see just _how_ sorry, Captain.” Irene’s voice was ice as she looked at the three of them, skimming over poor Molly and resting on Greg. “Were you the one who found him, Inspector Lestrade?”

“Y-yes, ma’am.” Greg swallowed, an audible sound, his eyes wide. “I got a text message from him and figured I had better come get eyes on for myself. I wasn’t...expecting to find him the way I did, but...he’s...fine. He’s alright now.”

“Is he? Did he tell you he was fine?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you _believed_ him?”

“No, ma’am, I did not. I got him off the roof and brought him straight to Doctor Hooper. She’s been very, very helpful.”

“Hmm.” Irene looked at Molly, her gaze sharp and searching. “Doctor Hooper, how soon can you have those results ready?”

“S-some of the tests will take a bit more time, Miss Adler, but...I can have them ready for you by tonight?”

“That will do. Thank you, Doctor Hooper.” Irene narrowed her eyes and turned on John. “On your feet, Captain. Now.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” It never occurred to John that he was submitting in public, he couldn’t be bothered to care. With the notepad in hand, he got up. Kate had collected his coat, he had his phone and wallet.

“Is he free to go?” Irene looked at the other two, who shared a startled glance and quickly nodded.

“Yes, Miss Adler. He’s free to go. He needs someone to keep an eye on him, though.”

“Oh, don’t worry about _that_ , Inspector Lestrade.” Irene’s voice was...dangerous. John shuddered and swallowed a whimper. He was fucked. Well and truly.

“He won’t be trying anything while I have him with me. Good day to you both, my thanks for your assistance.” Irene turned from the frightened pair and looked at John, her gaze hard and unwavering. “We’re leaving now. Come, Captain.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He ducked his head and quietly followed her out of the office. Leaving the hospital, he settled on the bench of the car and watched her as they left Saint Barts. The silence was heavy and deafening. John looked down at his hands. Oh. He still had Greg’s notepad. He’d have to return it sometime later, after this had blown over. Taking a deep breath, he looked up again and met Irene’s gaze, and knew better than to try for conversation.

“What are you doing with that notepad?”

“I’m...” he paused, looking at the writing on the pages, his own scrappy handwriting. “Writing down my lists, Miss Adler. You told me to.” He didn’t have to lie to Irene the way he did with Molly and Greg.

“Good. You’re going to need it.” She looked at her fingernails, then picked up her phone. He swallowed on impulse and felt a tremor in one hand. Letting out a slow breath, John tightened his grip on the biro and looked at Irene for a moment. She was not making eye-contact and he sighed. Okay, he would write more of the contract, it would give him something to do. He recalled his arrangements with Sherlock, the existing contract, and thought of something.

“Miss Adler?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Er, could we...stop somewhere before we return to the house?”

“What do you possibly need that requires making a specific stop?”

“I have...some papers in storage. I think they might...uh, might be useful.” He said quietly. One eyebrow went up a fraction and he felt a tiny thrill.

“Do you have the keys to the storage unit in question, Captain?”

“Yes, Miss Adler. Urban Locker Self Storage, in Hoxton.”

“Very well.” She leaned back and tapped on the divider. “Kate, it seems we have one stop to make before we go home. We’re going to Hoxton.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Kate just nodded and made the detour. It was quiet again, still tense. John sighed and looked out the window as they headed for Hoxton. The storage unit he owned was one his sister had rented out for him back when he went into the Army and had to leave most of his belongings behind and he just had never bothered to empty it out completely or close the account he had with the company. It had come in handy when he left Baker Street after Sherlock’s suicide and he needed somewhere to store his belongings again.

 

When they got to the storage facility, John retrieved his keys and went to find his storage unit. He knew exactly what he needed, where it was inside the unit. Getting into the unit, he located the proper box in the stack of things from Baker Street and opened it. The file in question was on top, and he grabbed it, opening it and pulling out the manila envelope with the paperwork he needed, making sure it was all there. Putting the box back on the stack after closing it up, he left the unit the way he’d found it, locked up once he was out, and returned to the waiting car. The drive from Hoxton to Belgravia went much the way the drive from Saint Barts to Hoxton had gone, and when they arrived, he followed Irene into the house. Once the door was locked behind them, she gave him orders.

“Captain, give me the notepad and file.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He handed her the items in question.

“I have business to attend to, you will sit quietly while I finish up some paperwork.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“This way.” She turned and headed in a particular direction. John gave his coat to Kate, who gave him a sympathetic smile and a pat on the arm.

“Captain!” Irene’s voice brooked no dithering or defiance. John winced and fell into step behind her. He followed her without a word, without complaint, without hesitation, stopping when she came to a closed door. He didn’t think this was the play-room, but he wasn’t certain of that and waited in at-rest until she opened the door and told him to enter. It was a hold-over from his Army days, and he’d done it with Sherlock as well.

“Go in.” She ordered, standing aside so he could go in first. He entered a surprisingly open, airy room. It was small, but it didn’t feel cramped. This was quite obviously a study of some sort, there was a workstation in one corner, two chairs, an ottoman, and a small built-in bookshelf. The flooring was polished hardwood, covered by one rug under the workspace. Most of the openness and natural lighting was from a glass atrium-enclosure that held...John wasn’t certain what, but it was pretty. The ottoman, he realized belatedly, doubled as storage for...interesting things.

“Take off everything you’re wearing, one piece at a time. Fold it as you remove it, place it on the chair.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” John didn’t question, he simply got to work. Sherlock had done this, too, and John suspected he knew what was coming. Folding his shirt, he toed off and set aside his shoes, putting his socks together inside the left shoe, moving on to his denims, carefully removing the belt and laying it aside separately.

“Once you’re done, you will kneel by the enclosure, and stay there until I tell you.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He kept his gaze averted. John felt a little sick from the episode earlier, but it was unlikely anything would come of it.

“Miss Adler?”

“Go.” She wasn’t even looking at him as she pointed. “Do what you must and come right back.”

“Thank you, Miss Adler.” He quietly left the room, wearing nothing but black boxer-briefs. Locking himself into the bathroom, he took the opportunity to void his bladder and, ultimately, his bowels. After cleaning up properly, washing his hands quite thoroughly, John returned to the study.

“Kneel.” She pointed out where she wanted him to be, and he dropped obediently into a kneel, waiting. She was there almost instantly, one hand on the back of his neck. Her fingers slid into his hair and tightened painfully.

“What happened this morning, Captain?”

“I...don’t know, Miss Adler.”

“You don’t know, or you can’t say?”

“I can’t...I can’t say right now, Miss Adler. I’m sorry, Miss Adler.”

“We’ll work on your communication. For now, take this.” She held something out to him, a small plastic cup with something in it. He took the cup and studied the contents for a minute. Nurofen? That would be helpful, if he was in for a long kneel. Once he had taken the dose, she took the cup from him and set it aside.

“Do you know what this is, Captain?” She was holding something in her hands, and John raised his head to look. Cuffs, of some sort.

“I think I do, Miss Adler.”

“Now, lean forward.” She pushed between his shoulders until he dropped forward onto all fours. “These will keep you in position until I let you out.” She adjusted his position until she had him just the way she wanted and he kept still as she applied the restraints. Thigh-to-ankle restraints, he hadn’t played with those in...a while. They hadn’t been necessary. A bondage-belt with wrist-to-waist cuffs attached to the first set of restraints with clips and tethers. When she pulled him into a kneeling position to secure tethers to the lower restraints, he was halfway to sub-space. It was just...something that happened whenever he was put in full-body restraints, without fail.

“Is there any discomfort in your shoulders or your knees, Captain?”

“No, Miss Adler.” He said softly. That might change in a few hours, but he would let her know if it did. She would watch him for signs of discomfort and step in if necessary.

“Do you remember your safe-words?”

“Yes, Miss Adler. I’m fine for now.”

“Good boy. Now, I have work to do, but when I am done, you and I will talk.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He bowed his head, keeping his eyes closed.

“Do you want a blindfold, Captain?” She had noticed, of course.

“Yes, please, Miss Adler.” It would help him focus.

“Very well.” She was gone then, and he whined at the loss of contact. Of course, at this rate he was damn lucky she was willing to touch him at all. Once she had him blindfolded, she tugged on his hair to get him to lean his head back and leaned in until he could feel her breath on his skin.

“You need to learn a very important lesson, Captain Watson.”

“Yes, Miss Adler. I’m sorry.”

“Hmm. We’ll see just how sorry.” John knew better than to think she would kiss him, but he still expected it and was a little sad when she walked away from him without delivering. He didn’t deserve it, he hadn’t _earned_ a kiss, earned affection. He heard her settle at the desk he had noticed earlier and settled in for his punishment.

* * *

* * *


	6. Edge Of Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene is dealing with the aftermath of John's solo visit to Saint Bart's. She gets a client in and things get a bit more...interesting. Nothing like reducing the powerful to moaning and twitching with a few careful swings of a riding-crop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is kind of short, but I hope you enjoyed it!

* * *

* * *

Irene Adler was very aware of the man kneeling near the glass wall, the occasional shuffle as he shifted his position just enough to keep muscles from cramping, to keep blood flowing. She looked at her watch and raised an eyebrow. Hmm, it had been two hours. She had gone over the paperwork he had retrieved from his storage-unit and discovered a complete, detailed contract. She had compared the data in the printed contract to the handwritten contract he had written while at Saint Bart’s Hospital and on the way from the hospital to the house, it was a nearly perfect match, only a few details were missing because the handwritten version was incomplete. This contract would serve for their needs, for what she had asked of him. She would have him sign the contract later, for the moment she was content to put her name to the proper line. They would have the contract notarized and copied as soon as possible.

 

Her phone pinged with an alert and she sighed, picking it up. An appointment reminder. She hadn’t cleared her schedule for more than retrieving John from the hospital, it didn’t seem necessary. Another alert came in, this one from Kate to let her know that her next appointment had arrived. She got up, leaving her phone for a moment, and went to John, who raised his head as he heard her footsteps.

“How is your shoulder, Captain?”

“It’s fine, Miss Adler.” He said softly, ever obedient. She smiled, even though he couldn’t see it, and briefly ran her fingers through his hair, just a brief touch to reassure him. He made a soft sound and she felt him fighting the urge to lean into her touch. He knew better, he knew she was still punishing him for that morning’s minor fiasco. She tugged on his hair.

“I have business to attend to, I want you to stay here, right as I have you now. Do not move from this spot.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“Good boy.” She let him go and looked down at him, “Do you want me to remove the blindfold?”

“No, Miss Adler. I’m alright.”

“Very well. Stay here until I come back for you.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He dropped his head again and she turned and walked away. She was still very cross with him and wanted to hear from him what he’d thought he was doing going up on the rooftop of Saint Bart’s like he had. That would have to wait, she had clients to see to.

 

Leaving the study, she went downstairs to the playroom where she saw to the clients who came to her. Kate had already taken the client into the playroom and prepped him for this afternoon’s session, and Irene suspected if his day had been anything like hers, they both had some grievances to beat out. He would take the abuse, he always did. He might complain a bit, but he never refused the rougher sessions when she decided to take out her grievances on his body. As she closed the door, she looked at the man kneeling by the bed and smirked.

“Good afternoon, Mr H. Are you ready for our session?”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“Have you been bad today?” 

“I lost my patience with the Americans, Miss Adler.” He tilted his head up enough to look at her shoes.

“Oh, you always do, boy. I know what you think of them, it’s no secret to me.” She circled her client as they talked, taking in the expanses of pale, unmarked flesh. “I can see through your armour, you know.”

“Of course, Miss Adler.”

“You haven’t been to see me in several months, I was beginning to miss these little visits of ours.” She moved to a locked cabinet and got it open, looking at the toys inside. Hmm. What to put to use today? If she was dealing with John’s disobedience and he had the stupid Americans to take up his time, something harder than their usual?

“How hard are you willing to play today, boy?” She looked over her shoulder.

“I need my mind to quiet, Miss Adler.”

“Number?”

“5, Miss Adler.” She raised an eyebrow. They rarely went THAT high.

“Very well, then.” She picked out a few toys and went back to him, “I hope you are prepared, Mr H, I am in a bit of a foul mood this afternoon.”

“Yes, Miss Adler, I was warned of your mood by your assistant.” She could have sworn he smirked. Cheeky bastard, but she wasn’t expecting any less of him. Once she had him properly tied up, she got to work.

“So, Mr Holmes.” She flicked the riding-crop in her left hand, enjoying the sound it made as it struck the wall and the resulting noise her client made. “Have you been a bad boy today?”

“Yes, Miss Adler. Very bad.”

“Then I suppose I shall have to punish you.” She smirked and laid the first mark on his skin. He whined and she heard the tethers creak as he tugged against the restraints holding him down. Irene chuckled and flicked the tongue of the riding-crop against the soft, sensitive skin of his perineum. He jolted, tugged harder on the straps, and yelped.

“Oh, and do be quiet. I will gag you if I must.” She warned him. Reaching out, she ran her fingers along his thigh, admiring the softness, the way his body reacted to her touch, the minute shudders and twitches. Wondering that such a powerful man was willing to debase himself and allow someone to humiliate him like this. But it wasn’t just anyone, it was Irene who had the pleasure of getting to take Mycroft Holmes apart and reduce him to a state of monosyllabic moaning and pleas for more, for relief, for mercy. Harder, please.

“Now, let’s see about quieting that mind of yours, shall we, then?” She reached around for the twitching penis, debating if she might make use of a cock-ring. “Remember to use your words if you must, but I don’t think you will.”

* * *

* * *


	7. Troubles Of His Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John undergoes his punishment for what happened at Saint Bart's. Irene promised to take care of him, but he needs to learn how to communicate ALL of his needs very clearly. This is what happens when fear and misunderstanding lead to miscommunications. Irene is a saint, and she's got her work cut out for her with John.

* * *

* * *

John wasn’t sure how long he had been kneeling in Irene’s office, but his body was telling him it had been several hours. She had been in and out since leaving that first time, attending to clients both at the house and elsewhere in London, and he stayed where he was the entire time. Finally, the door clicked and he heard the familiar sound of her heels on the hardwood flooring.

“There you are, Captain.” She seemed pleased to find him the way she had left him all that time ago. “How are you?”

“I’m...alright, Miss Adler.”

“Are you?” She came to stand behind him, “Because the last time you said that to someone, you ended up on the rooftop of Saint Bart’s Hospital and had a dissociative episode, blind-texting Greg Lestrade with the text-message equivalent of a suicide note.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“We found you on the rooftop, exactly where Sherlock Holmes jumped from eighteen months ago. What were you thinking, Captain?”

“I...wasn’t, Miss Adler.”

“I promised we would talk, and we will.” She removed the blindfold and released the restraints, carefully rubbing sensation back into his hands and arms, pushing him onto his hands and knees to do the same for his legs. John moaned as muscles cramped by kneeling tried to adjust to a new position.

“Can you stand, John?” Ah, so one stage of his punishment was over. He nodded and held out one hand.

“Might need a hand, love.”

“Of course.” Irene just smiled and helped him up. The aches and pains were familiar and welcome, and John exhaled slowly as he worked a kink out of his ankle. Irene took him by the hand.

“Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Upstairs. You won’t be able to manage the stairs in your state, we’ll take the lift.”

“Oh, God bless you.” He squeezed her hand tightly, relieved she was allowing this kind of intimate contact. “I really am sorry, Irene, I didn’t...”

“We are both at fault for what happened this morning at Saint Bart’s John. I’m going to take care of you now.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “You are still under punishment for your behaviour, but you deserve a reprieve and we need to talk about what happened and why it happened.”

“Yes, of course.” He sighed. He knew there was a thrashing of some manner in his future, but they were going to talk about the incident at Bart’s like responsible adults and he would admit to some of his insecurities. He had to, it was only fair to both of them. They took the lift from the lower ground floor where Irene kept her office up to the second floor, to the master bedroom. She let him into the bedroom and directed him to the chaise. Someone had been in, he suspected either Rosemary or Kate, a fire had been laid in the hearth. On the low table was a tray with water, tea, and food.

 

Irene disappeared into the dressing room, only gone for a moment before she returned wearing a spaghetti-strap mini dress that barely covered anything. She had a silver tray in her hands with several things arranged on it, a pair of satin pyjama trousers and several toys. John gulped at the sight of the toys, able to name each one. She caught him watching but her expression did not change. Instead, she gave him an order.

“Kneel.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He lowered to a kneel on the soft carpet, the cushion at the side of the chaise. 

“Be comfortable, but stay there.” She ordered. John settled into a neutral posture, knowing he would be here for a while. Content with his obedience, Irene sat down on the chaise and reached for the tray on the coffee-table, selecting one of the cups.

“You must be thirsty, drink something.” She offered him the cup, and he obeyed. Small sips, a little at a time. When she took the cup away, he sighed and resettled his weight.

“Are you hungry?”

“A little, Miss Adler.”

“Then eat.” She offered him a piece of food from the tray. Fruit, a grape. He took it, grateful for the thoughtful nature of his domme. In this fashion, she offered him bites of food and sips of water and tea. After a while she set aside the water-glass and settled the plate on her lap, picking out something for herself.

“Now. Explain to me why Greg Lestrade, of all people in London, received a text from you that read, and I quote, “Saint Barts. Come at once. Danger Night. Help me. – JWA”.”

“I was...having flashbacks. I must have been. Of...of that day.” John rubbed his left wrist, “I...I’m sorry, Miss Adler.”

“Why were you having flashbacks, Captain?”

“Because...I decided I would rather go to someone I knew, sort of, and trusted. Molly Hooper may not be my friend, Miss Adler, but she’s...actually quite good at her job. I think she’s the best at what she does, actually.”

“Oh? And what does she do?” It was a rhetorical question, Irene knew damn well what Molly did.

“Makes her living on the dead bodies the rest of us bring her when we get a case in.” He dared to look up at her, “See, I could have gone almost anywhere else in town and given a false name, but I...went to Bart’s instead. I...I shouldn’t have.”

“What were you doing up on the rooftop where we found you?”

“I...wanted to see what Sherlock saw, Miss Adler. What he could see that day before...before he jumped.” John swallowed hard. She gave him water and touched the side of his face.

“You don’t speak of that day very often, do you?”

“No, Miss Adler. I can’t. I can’t explain what it felt like to stand there and...watch him fall like that. And I couldn’t reach him, people were trying to keep me away from him. I couldn’t get to my best friend. I couldn’t help him, I couldn’t...save him.”

“Were you aware of texting Greg?”

“No, Miss Adler.” He shook his head, “I wasn’t aware of doing any of that, I barely remember climbing the stairs to get up there in the first place. I only knew something was on when...”

“When what?”

“When I heard the sirens and saw four cars pull up at the hospital below me on the street.”

“Oh, John, you poor man.” She ran her fingers through his hair, “You must have felt terrible.”

“I did. I...I do, Miss Adler. I never meant to alarm anyone or cause any trouble.”

“So, why did you do that? I understand the motive, but not why you reacted so...well, you were not violent. Why did you react so explicitly to returning to Saint Bart’s?”

“I...I think it’s because when I got there, it was just me.”

“Just you?” An eyebrow went up. He nodded.

“I didn’t think I could do it by myself, something in my head told me it was a very, very bad idea to go to Saint Bart’s by myself if I went at all.” He bowed his head. He was not going to cry, he absolutely was not. It was silly to cry.

“You wanted someone to go with you so you wouldn’t be alone, so you wouldn’t be in danger of having an episode just like you did.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“You could have asked Kate, she would have happily stayed to wait for you, to wait with you if you needed it.”

“She shouldn’t _have_ to wait with me, she has other things to do.” He shrugged, “You had work, and she had to be available to take you wherever _you_ needed to go.”

“John, did you want _me_ to wait with you? To go with you to Bart’s?” And there it was, the million-dollar question, the question John didn’t want to answer. He hesitated, just long enough she noticed. Her hand tightened in his hair to the point of pain and she forced his head back so they were looking at each other.

“Captain, answer me. Tell me the truth. Did you want me to go with you to Saint Bart’s this morning and wait with you?”

“Yes, Miss Adler. I’m so sorry, Miss Adler. I have no right to ask for your time like that, I know that, I don’t know why…”

“Stop, Captain.” She said softly, her voice still commanding and sharp. John couldn’t stop a shudder. “I cannot take care of you if you won’t speak up on what you want or need. You must communicate, clearly, what you want from me.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“Do you understand?”

“Very clearly, Miss Adler.” This whole mess was a result of miscommunication and hesitation to make a specific request.

“Now, let’s try again. Did you want me to join you this morning?”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“And you asked me, didn’t you, Captain?”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He swallowed hard.

“And I told you I was busy, that I had no time for you.”

“That’s what I _heard_ , Miss Adler. I’m not certain that’s what you either said or meant.” He blinked, feeling the sting of tears again. For God’s sake, don’t cry, man. Her grip gentled and he closed his eyes. Fuck. He didn’t want to cry.

“The fault lies with both of us, I’m afraid, Captain. We have an agreement?”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“Your actions at Saint Bart’s cannot go unpunished, you know this.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“Fifteen lashes, no more, no less. Chose your instrument.” She released him and John took a deep breath at the brief stab of fear in his chest. She wasn’t going to hurt him unnecessarily, and he had endured far more than fifteen lashes at Sherlock’s hands. Fifteen lashes, something to get the point across properly and leave a mark to remind him when he sat down. Arrayed on the tray were four toys. Well, eight if you included the plugs and rings. John swallowed hard. There was a four-tailed flogger, knotted and fringed at the fall ends; the familiar riding-crop; a six-tailed martinet flogger with fork-tongued falls; a slim, flexible cane made of bamboo and leather; and two each of cock-rings and plugs. One of the rings was a ring-and-plug combo. With shaky fingers, John selected the silicone ring-and-plug combo. He offered it to Irene with both hands, keeping his head down.

“You may choose, Miss Adler.”

“You trust me that much, Captain?”

“It is only right, Miss Adler.” He let her take the ring and waited for her to chose the second toy. He wasn’t terribly surprised when she settled on the riding-crop, or when she asked for his hands. Then, she applied the ring, and the plug slid into place with a bit of lube to help ease the way. John stifled a groan at the sensation, it was so...unusual. It wasn’t long before she had him in the same restraints he’d worn during his kneel, except this time he had to stay in the semi-fetal position. Once she was satisfied, Irene picked up the crop and moved around him.

“Count each one, Captain, out loud. Use your words if you must.”

“Yes, Miss Adler. I understand.” He turned his head as she stood behind him, listening to the swish of the crop. With his arms under his head, he waited for the first of fifteen lashes to fall.

Swish. Crack!

“One.” The first, when it landed, was quite gentle on his hip. They would get harder.

 Swish. Crack! 

“Two.” Harder this time. He grimaced.

Swish. Crack!

“Three.” He hissed a bit, the third was properly smarting.

At the count of five, he yelped.

When he twitched at seven, she delivered a warning.

“Don’t evade, Captain.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He huffed.

By the count of ten, they were coming fast and hard and he was in blissful agony. An incoming blow landed where a previous had been laid and John gave a startled shout.

“What was that, Captain?” She challenged him. Where were they on the count-down? He let out a harsh moan and flexed his shoulders. She wouldn’t punish him for _that_ kind of movement.

“Th-thirteen...Miss Adler.” He said hoarsely.

“Very good.” He heard the swish of the crop and clenched his teeth as the second to last lash was laid down.

“F-fourteen!” He groaned, feeling the nails of his left hand digging into the palm of his right. Fifteen came close behind and he heard her step away once he’d gotten out the final count. Coming around to his head, she leaned down and released the tethers on the wrist-cuffs. Sitting up and back on his heels was agony, but it was a beautiful agony that he had missed. There hadn’t been anyone to keep him right, to give him what he needed, for eighteen months. In no time, he was out of all of the restraints and she put him down on his front, on a soft sheet.

“There you are, Captain. You were very good, such an obedient boy.” She was touching him all over, working kinks out of his shoulders, stroking his hair. As she tended to the red welts left from taking fifteen lashes with a riding-crop, John heard her singing. The after-care cream was cool against the abused skin, and he hissed at the difference of sensation. It felt wonderful, though.

 

When he began to cry, she didn’t berate him or tell him to stop. It wasn’t hysterics, it wasn’t sobbing, it was...quiet. Irene would take care of him, she had promised.

“Are you alright, John?”

“S-sorry.” He stuttered. “Shouldn’t...cry like that. S-stupid.”

“It is not stupid. I am not going to punish you for crying, not now or ever.” She shifted as if to get up, and John reacted to that. Without thinking, he reached for her.

“Don’t. Please don’t leave.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” She touched the back of his neck. “I’m not leaving you.”

“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t...I didn’t...”

“I know.” She squeezed his shoulder, “Can you sit up for me?”

“I think I can.” With some adjusting, John got himself into a sitting position.

“I never, _ever_ want to hear you say you’re not important. Not to me, or to anyone else. When Kate called me after Lestrade called _her_ , I thought you were hurt, or dead.” Irene stood before him, beautiful and glorious in that dress, and he was shocked to see evidence of tears on her face. Oh, Christ, that was because of him. She had cried because of _him_.

“I wasn’t...I didn’t think. I just...I wanted to see what Sherlock saw. I...I didn’t want to jump.”

“But you _did_ , John, and that’s what scares me the most. For eighteen months, you’ve had no one but yourself for company, and you didn’t see anything wrong with going up there, standing there. You didn’t think there was anything wrong with contemplating ending everything and taking one last step off the ledge.” She shook her head. “You didn’t think there was anyone who would _miss_ you. You were stupid and selfish.” Those words, harsh as they were, were necessary. He still flinched at hearing them, the way she spoke them so harshly.

“But who would? I’m...no one important. I’m just the sidekick. No one pays attention to me. I mean, Molly barely knew my _name_ before the funeral.” He lowered his head. “What can I _do_ , Miss Adler?”

“Can you stand?”

“Yes, but I’ll need help.”

“Give me your hands.” Irene held out her hands in invitation and John offered his. Getting up was a slow process, her arms went around his waist as soon as he was upright, holding him steady. His left knee buckled, he’d known it would after what he’d been through in the last four hours, but he didn’t collapse.

“Come with me, John.” Irene tugged on his hand and led him to the en-suite, where he found a bath had been drawn. The water was just this side of too hot, but it was perfect. He didn’t know when the bath had been drawn, but he wasn’t going to ask too many questions.

“Let me take care of you, you need to be tended to properly.” Irene helped him into the tub, following right behind, and he found himself cradled between her legs, back-to-chest, head against her shoulder.

“Irene?”

“Hmm?”

“Would...would _you_ miss me?” He was thinking about her reaction to having to beat sense into him. She hadn’t seemed all that bothered by it earlier, but then again, he wasn’t very good at reading emotional responses when he was in a bad head-space and had honestly just assumed she was furious with him. It had never occurred to him that she was scared.

“Oh, John. Yes, I would miss you.” She ran her hands along his body from shoulder to hip. “You are one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. One of the kindest, most unique men.”

“Plain, silly John Watson.”

“You are neither plain nor silly, don’t ever say that again.” She tugged on his hair, “You’ve seen places and had experiences that would terrify most people, survived them to move on with your life. You put your life at risk every day when you work with The Met.”

“Most of ‘em don’t even _like_ me.”

“That is on them, not on you.” She reached for a bottle on the side of the tub, flicking the cap open. The scent of roses and dogwood hit him and he sighed, leaning back against the soft body holding him. The sensation of the soap against his skin was lovely, and they took turns washing each other, trading touches and kisses all the while. It was a lovely little bit of after-care and bonding.

 

When the water had cooled, they drained the tub, rinsed off, and got out. Drying off with towels the size of throw-blankets, he got dressed in the pyjama bottoms she had selected earlier after applying a bit more cream to the healing welts. They were bruising up nicely, he’d have fun sitting still for a while yet.

“I hope you’re hungry, Rosemary has something special planned for dinner.” Irene smiled as she put on a red silk chemise and a long black robe.

“Starving, actually.” He tugged on the ties of the trousers. He had lost a bit of weight and knew he would have to work to gain it back.

“I know you’re not a picky eater, but I do hope you’re fond of German food.”

“Love it.” John smiled. “Spent a couple of deployments in Germany, fell in love with the food and the culture.”

“Ah, that’s right. Alanbrook Barracks, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He took the robe she offered him and shrugged it on. He’d need another dose of Nurofen if he wanted any sleep tonight, maybe a sleep-aid for good measure. When Irene held something out to him, he hesitated for a moment. It was his cane, of all things. He chuckled and took it with a sense of regret.

“Oh, this bloody thing. Too bad it’s so damn useful.”

“I need you healthy, John.”

“I make no promises, but I’ll try to keep myself up.” He gave her a sad smile.

When they got to the kitchen, Kate and Rosemary were chatting over tea, and the expression on Rosemary’s face when she saw the cane was memorable.

“Oh, what happened to you!” She cried, eyes wide with horror.

“It’s alright, Rosemary. I had a bad day, so we dug this old piece of equipment out of storage for my sake.”

“I heard about your stunt at the hospital, young man, and that was a very foolish thing you did.”

“I won’t be doing it again, Rosemary, don’t worry.” He smiled at the kind woman, squeezing her hand, “I promise. I have people to worry about me, miss me. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good! You’re a good young man, John Watson, maybe too good for the rest of us.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” He shook his head and sat down next to Irene when she patted the chair beside her in invitation. Sitting down hurt, just like he knew it would, and he gave her a slightly dirty look.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know what you did.”

“I’d say something about cruel and unusual.” He sniffed and shifted a bit. Kate snickered across the table and John kicked her in the ankle.

“Ow!”

“It’s not nice to laugh at other people’s suffering, Kate.”

“What if they earned it?”

“Oh, that’s enough out of you two!” Rosemary turned from the range to shake a ladle at them. “We are not children, are we?”

“No, Rosemary.”

“Then don’t act like it!” She gave them a stern look and turned back to what she was doing. “You, leave him alone. You, don’t take the bait.”

“Oh, I like her.” John picked up the water-glass and took a sip.

 

Dinner was nothing short of a trip back to Germany for John, Rosemary had spent the day preparing _Knieperkohl_ _, Kasseler,_ and _Pickert_. Dishes he hadn’t eaten since his last deployment in Paderborn.

“I think he likes it,” Kate whispered. John shook his head as he picked up one of the dumplings on his plate.

“Oh no, Kate. It’s not a like. I haven’t eaten food like this in four years at least.”

“When were you in Paderborn, Captain Watson?” Rosemary looked at him carefully. John tilted his head. He’d been on at least three deployments to Germany, the last in 2008. Before that fateful deployment to Afghanistan, which had also been his last on active service. But he didn’t recall saying anything about Paderborn.

“My last rotation through was in 2008. The next deployment took me to Afghanistan, which was also my last.”

“Oh my God, John.” Irene blinked. “That must have been when you were shot.”

“Yep.”

<“Captain, what did I always tell you, every single time I saw you?”> Rosemary startled all three of them by speaking her parental German, John immediately recognized the Westphalian dialect spoken by the locals in Paderborn. He almost choked.

<“What did…you…tell me?”> He didn’t realize he’d done it, considering he hadn’t spoken a lick of German in four years. <“I don’t…I don’t remember.”>

<“I always told you to take better care of yourself, you silly boy. And you never seemed to listen to me.”> She came over to stand behind his chair, a familiar expression on her face, “I _thought_ I recognized you, John Watson! And not just from the papers and what awful things they say about you! You have _not_ been taking good care of yourself! I just can’t trust you by yourself, can I?”

“I don’t suppose saying I’m sorry would help, Rosemary?”

“No! Not this time, young man! Don’t you _ever_ do that to me again! My poor old heart can’t handle the stress!” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, “Don’t you go off and disappear on me again, Captain Watson, or so help me I will hunt you down and save you from yourself.”

“If I didn’t think you were dead serious, Rosemary.” John smiled and turned to give Rosemary a kiss, “I thought I was missing something.”

“Yes, you were! You stay here, and I will feed you up properly! Put some meat back on those skinny little bones of yours!”

“You’re a saint, Rosemary.” John squeezed the old woman’s hand, glad he’d stumbled upon an old, old friend of his in a rather unlikely place. Content, but not at all satisfied, Rosemary went off again.

“How on earth do you know Rosemary Valdez-Simson, John?” Irene asked, eyes wide with awe, “And how did I not know you spoke German?”

“Rosemary and I go a long, _long_ ways back, Irene. She was my neighbour back when I was stationed in Paderborn, Germany. She lived walking distance to the barracks, so whenever I got leave from the base, I’d head for hers to get a few loads of laundry done and some decent food. Never mind a real bed.”

“You are a man of simplest pleasure and few demands, Watson. There are so very few like you, do not do anything foolish for our sakes.” Rosemary shot him a look over her shoulder.

“I won’t Rosemary.” He promised.

 

Dinner was pleasant, give or take the ache in his backside from the fifteen lashes and the twinge in his knees from kneeling for so long. It was a punishment earned the hard way, and he would very likely not suffer it again if he was smart about things.

“My niece was asking about you the other day, John, wanted to know what you were up to,” Rosemary said as she gave them dessert after clearing the plates from the main course, _Herrencreme_ and glasses of traditional Bärenfang, called Bärenjäger outside of Germany. Rosemary served it on the rocks with a splash of soda water, the way she had back in Paderborn all those years ago.

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her that I hadn’t heard of you in quite a while, but as soon as I did know something, I would pass it along to her.” Rosemary smiled and ruffled his hair with a motherly fondness. “She always was quite fond of you, wasn’t she?”

“Fond is one word for it.” John chuckled and took a sip of his drink. “You can tell Monica that I’m alright. Not fine, but alright.”

“She won’t like it.” Rosemary shook her head, “I don’t like it either. But I can do something about it. And I’m going to, just you try and stop me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Rosemary.” John smiled up at the kind woman who had looked after him in Germany and seemed set to do it all over again in London. God bless her.

 

It was only after he’d put away two servings of dessert that Rosemary would even consider letting him go anywhere. Irene took him back upstairs to bed, it was time to unwind and relax after a long, stressful day.

“Too bad I never had a chance to introduce Sherlock to this, he’d love it.” John mused, settled in Irene’s bed with another glass of the Bärenfang after being shooed out of the kitchen by a very amused, motherly Rosemary.

“What makes you say that?” Irene asked as she settled alongside him, picking up the same book he’d seen her reading last night.

“He loved honey, loved bees and anything to do with them.” He sniffled and took a sip of the drink. “I think he wanted to retire to the country somewhere and raise them, whenever he got sick and tired of the hustle of doing whatever the hell it was he made a living doing.”

“You miss him, don’t you?”

“Hard not to, never met a man like that before in my _life_.” He sighed, “He was too smart, you should have seen the way he looked at me, even though he was trying to make it look like he wasn’t interested or paying attention.”

“What gave him away?”

“I know when I’m being checked out, ta.” John smiled, thinking of how painfully unsubtle Sherlock had been that first day at Saint Bart’s. One of the strangest, most exciting relationships of his whole life had started and ended in that hospital, practically in the same fucking lab, but he was working on moving on. He had a life to live and he didn’t think Sherlock would appreciate it if he spent the rest of it dwelling on the maybes and might-have-beens. He finished the drink and set it on the bedside table.

“John, come here.” Irene was focused on her book, but aware of him.

“Hmm?”

“Go, then come back and come here.” She flicked a gaze at the en-suite, and John sighed, shuffling off the bed to take care of his routine. It didn’t take long, and he was quick about the whole business. Returning to the bed, he got comfortable next to Irene, who held out one hand in invitation.

 

They ended up with John on his side, leaning against Irene, who held him against the curve of her body while he laid his head on her shoulder, and read a bit from that book of hers while playing with John’s hair. He had taken another dose of Nurofen and a dose of Sominex for good measure, and Irene applied more cream to the bruising. That led to a bit of massage and in no time at all, John had dropped and was asleep in what felt like mere seconds. In the hands of a professional, a trusted domme, he was completely safe and looked after. Safe, sane, consensual. That’s what this would be. Tomorrow would be soon enough to discuss contract-terms, he suspected Irene had some very specific terms for him to follow, and she already knew all of his so it was mostly him learning what _she_ expected of him.

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dishes and beverages Rosemary prepares can be found here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_German_dishes#Westphalia


	8. Altered Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Irene discuss the future and John decides to move into Irene's place. Plans are made for Remembrance Day and John decides to have a bit of fun playing dress-up.

* * *

* * *

John slept a bit fitfully that night, but he woke up feeling rested. Rather sore, but he knew he’d gotten good sleep. Getting out of bed with care for his slumbering partner, he shuffled to the en-suite and took care of business. Washing his hands, he splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth. As he returned to the bed, he heard Irene’s phone sound the text-alert. Instinct drilled into him from fetching up Sherlock’s phone every time that great idiot had received a text or a phone-call had him scooping the phone into his hand and figuring out her lock-code. He recalled what it had been last time he’d had anything to do with her phone, but entering those four digits returned a fail. Interesting, but it made sense that in the year and a half since Sherlock had committed suicide that she would have changed the lock-code. He stood by the bed and studied her phone.

 

She must have changed it just recently, possibly within the last twenty-four hours. Hmm. Something just as meaningful and private as her first code, which, if John wasn’t mistaken, had been the first four letters of Sherlock’s name. Her code had once read, in full, “I am SHER-locked”, but the lock-screen itself had changed. Now it read “I believe in ---- Watson” with four blanks. Well, that was kind of obvious, wasn’t it? No wonder 7-4-3-7 hadn’t worked, her focus had completely shifted. With a soft, amused chuckle, John tapped in 5-6-4-6. That got him access to the phone and a few new text-messages from Molly Hooper. He smirked, climbing back into bed and sneaking up behind Irene, who was sound asleep.

“’Morning, beautiful.” He nuzzled her cheek and neck, waking her up that way. “Come on, sweetheart, up you go.”

“Hmm? What’s the time?” She stirred and leaned back a bit.

“Just ahead of seven. Probably too early, but you got a message from Molly Hooper.”

“You broke into my phone?”

“You didn’t try very hard this time, love.” He smiled and handed her the phone as she rolled onto her back, “Do try to keep it from falling into the wrong hands again, will you?”

“Don’t worry, that won’t happen any time soon.” Irene made a face and looked through her messages. “Oh. Well, that was prompt of her.”

“What’s that now?”

“Doctor Hooper has the test-results from yesterday. Apparently, she had them ready last night but waited to deliver them until this morning, she wants to know when she can come by.”

“Anytime. But honestly, I’d rather sleep a few more hours.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, “What’d you say to that?”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea. C’mere, you lovely man.” She turned so they were face-to-face and took a proper kiss.

“Lovely, that is.”

“How do you feel this morning, dear? Any trouble getting around?”

“Nothing too awful.” He smirked and touched the side of her face, taking a piece of hair between his fingers. It was soft and curled around his fingers when he played with it. “Might be using my cane for a day or two, but I earned every bruise I’ve got on me.”

“Don’t ever think you are alone, John, that no one would miss you.” She scolded, eyes soft with sleep but sharp with emotion. He just nodded.

“I won’t do that to you, Irene. You just saved my life, I won’t throw that away.” He took her hand, pressed his lips to her knuckles. “I want to be here for you. For…for us.”

“Rosemary was right about you.” Irene smiled, a soft, sincere smile she didn’t seem to give anyone besides a few certain people.

“How?”

“You are too good for the rest of us, we don’t deserve you.”

“I won’t say what I’m thinking.” He had said it more than once in the past, and quite recently. He didn’t think there was anything particularly special about him, anything that set him apart from anyone else or made him worthy of notice from someone like Sherlock Holmes or Irene Adler. And yet, both of them had noticed him and found him intriguing enough to pursue him.

“I can see you, you know. The things you hide from the rest of the world, what hides behind the mask of the friendly, unassuming doctor.” Her voice was quiet, sleepy. “You are humble yet confident, you can and have taken nearly any partner who caught your fancy. Street-smart, clever. You have a good read on human nature, the way people react in certain situations, you can handle them and diffuse tensions in those situations. There’s a dangerous edge to your kindness, a watchfulness bred from more than years spent in hostile deserts. You are a deadly marksman, but no one would know that without knowing your deeper histories.”

“Hmm. Someone did her research.”

“Well, some of it.” Her smile was sly and he rolled his eyes.

“I’m not an idiot, no matter what the Holmes brothers might think. Of course _you_ would know about my history with MI6.” He wasn’t sure Sherlock had ever known, it had never come up. That first encounter with Mycroft in the warehouse had been…interesting, to say the least.

“My cousin is engaged to James Bond, I absolutely know about your history in MI6.” Irene pressed close, getting comfortable. “A few more hours, then we’ll face whatever the day has in store.”

“Clients?”

“Mm. Not today. That might change, but I somehow doubt that.” She nuzzled under his chin and he twitched as the exhale of her breath hit the side of his neck. One of his ticklish zones, that was.

“Oi.”

“Ah, you’re ticklish there, aren’t you?”

“Minx.” He muttered, resting his chin on her hair. “Sleep, you, or I’ll be completely useless.”

“Oh, tosh. You’re just put off because you’re sore from yesterday. You earned every single agonizing minute of that, and we both know it.”

“And I, madam, am man enough to admit I was stupid. I’ll try to refrain from doing that again.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” She muttered, relaxing in his arms. He wondered if anyone ever got to be this close to her, ever, and what made him so special that she let him. Well, best not to question his luck and change of fortunes. Maybe when they got their day properly started, they could go over the contract-terms from the contract John had given her yesterday, he was actually quite curious to know what _her_ terms were and what she expected of him.

 

Two hours later, they roused from the bed and started their day. Rosemary had breakfast waiting for them when they appeared, a proper British fry-up with a decidedly German touch. She had a basket of Franzbrötchen fresh from the oven.

“I’m moving in, just for the food.” He put three on his plate. “Do whatever you must to keep Rosemary, Irene, you have a special thing here.”

“Did I find the way to get you to _eat_?”

“Just ask her how many hours I wasted sitting in her kitchen, stealing bits of whatever she was cooking.” John smiled around a sip of coffee.

“Oh, you were a proper rascal, Watson.” That got him a warning wave of the mixing spoon. Irene was loving the dynamic and just brushed her fingers over the back of his hand, smiling like she knew the greatest secret in the country. He looked at her.

“This is…okay?”

“Oh, absolutely. You, of all people, deserve to be treated well, to be spoiled.” She looked at him, her eyes soft and bright. “You are allowed to touch me anytime you wish, if you are not undergoing punishment.” The quick, easy affection was new to him and he processed the knowledge carefully. It wasn’t that he was unused to showing affection to a woman who got his attention, it had just been so long since anyone had shown a legitimate interest in _letting_ him be affectionate. Sherlock hadn’t minded touching, but it had always been on his terms and affection in public was absolutely forbidden. John had learned very quickly how to treat Sherlock and simply left him to his own devices ninety per cent of the time. Rosemary just looked smug and content at the way the two of them behaved with each other.

 

After breakfast, Irene took him upstairs to the reception room and they sat down to talk about the contract. She had a similar contract written, probably done out ahead of time like his had been, kept for arrangements just like this. The only difference was that he was not, and short of a disastrous falling-out, would never be a client.

“I’ve read over your contract, I would like you to look over mine and then we’ll sign them. I’ll have them notarized at the soonest.” She handed him the file, “And remember, these are flexible arrangements. If something needs to change, we can do so.”

“Of course.” He opened the file and skimmed over the first page or two. It was all standard boiler-plate lingo, what he was interested in were Irene’s terms. She didn’t have very many, but the terms she had outlined were very particular and quite interesting. One was that he feel free to speak his mind regarding his desires, on whatever matter was at hand. He had a similar clause in his contract, to be able to _speak_ his mind without risk of reprimand. This was to ensure that yesterday would not happen again. If he wanted to request her company, he should feel free to do so. He was also free to seek out employment of his choosing, full or part-time. Any income gained from his work was his, she wouldn’t require any share of it, and if he decided against finding gainful employment, that was his right.

“Does this mean I can work with The Met when Greg needs a hand?” He looked at her briefly.

“Absolutely. With or without Sherlock, you’re rather good at solving crime.”

“Well, I suppose I’m grateful you didn’t give me a time-limit to _find_ a job.”

“That’s why I included the freedom to remain unemployed if that’s what you desire.”

“Thank you for that.” He kept reading, thinking of how many former partners wouldn’t have been quite so...accepting of his desire to avoid the workforce and a 9-to-5 clinic-post somewhere. Greg had taken him on as an official informant upon his return to London after spending some time away following the funeral, and he got paid for whatever work he did on behalf of The Met in the course of a case. There was one clause that got his attention, though, and he paid closer attention to it.

“Oh, what’s this?”

“That’s one you can take your time with, if it’s the one I’m thinking of, but I do think it is one you should consider more seriously.” Irene picked up another file, a client, and opened it while he went over the clause in question.

“You...think I should get a pet?” He wasn’t against the idea, but he was curious to know why _she_ thought it was a reasonable clause to put into their contract.

“Not just a pet, Captain. A dog.” She corrected gently.

“Why? I’m not against the idea, but...why do you think I should invest in something like that?”

“You need something to focus on, something to...I dare use the words “take care of”, “look after”. You are, if I am not much mistaken, very fond of animals and kept dogs in your youth.” She glanced at him, her gaze neutral.

“You invested much time and energies into looking after ferals and assigned working dogs alike while you were overseas in Afghanistan. Spent your own funds to provide food and toys for the ferals and toys alike for the working dogs.”

“I...yes. Yes, I did.” He cleared his throat, thinking of the work he had done on behalf of a charity a fellow service-member had set up for the dogs and animals of Afghanistan, putting the focus on the street-animals in Kabul and all over the country. The funds he had set aside and promptly put forward to see a number of said rescued animals safely to homes outside of Afghanistan. How he had convinced Sherlock to fund the rescue’s efforts after they attended a charity gala for the armed forces and had run into Paul Farthing (John just called him Pen, as did most people who knew him as more than a casual acquaintance), who filled John in on how things were going with the rescue and it’s efforts. Sherlock, a softie for animals as much as John was, had asked how much it would cost to get any animal awaiting a ticket home from Afghanistan to England or wherever else in the world they were going to find their forever home. When Paul had given them a list of names and transportation and vet fees associated, John hadn’t been quite sure what Sherlock would do with that information.

“What are you thinking, Captain?” Irene’s voice was quiet, but it pulled him out of his head. He looked at the contract and then at his domme.

“I’m sorry I drifted. I was just...thinking of something.”

“Something important?”

“A cause very dear to me, very near to my heart.” He cleared his throat a bit. “The rescue I worked with while I was stationed in Afghanistan and otherwise.”

“A cause you believe in so deeply you regret not being able to provide for them as you have in the past?”

“Oh, that’s not a concern, actually.” He smiled a bit, thinking of exactly _what_ Sherlock had done with the information from Paul. “There’s a whole trust fund set up just for the rescue, for them to use as they like to provide the funds to care for and transport adopted rescues from Afghanistan to wherever their final destination happens to be.”

“How do you know this?”

“Sherlock and I were at a charity gala back in...2010, I believe, and I ran into an old friend of mine, a service-mate from Afghanistan I had served with. I was part of a medical team attached to a Royal Marines squadron, and I got along fine with one of them. We shared a lot of the same interests, see, and bonded over that.”

“Including dogs?”

“Including dogs. Well, we lost touch after a while, of course, but when we reconnected in 2010, I introduced him to Sherlock. Sherlock will never admit this, but he’s the one who had the idea to start the trust fund.” John closed the file and set it aside. “Money wasn’t an issue, he said, and it wasn’t like there was anything else it was being used for. So, we talked to Mycroft, and we talked to his parents, and we started...”

“The Nowzad Dogs Home Safe Trust.” Irene just smiled, “You have a special fondness for those dogs, don’t you?”

“I loved those dogs, I saved as many of them as I could. Pen and I, we...well, we sort of made it our mission to educate and rescue the dogs of Afghanistan. We worked wherever we were posted. Kabul, Kandahar, Helmand. Cities and villages in those provinces. Districts we visited on patrols.”

“John, doesn’t your charity hold fundraisers and events in November?”

“Yes, every year. Nowzad November Night on the tenth, and the Service of Remembrance on the eleventh.”

“Would the Service of Remembrance coincide with the Remembrance Day solemnities?”

“Absolutely. I missed last year because I...I wasn’t living in London at the time.”

“I take it you’re in no mood to miss this year’s observations?”

“Not if I can help it. I’m in London, I’m able, I might as well go.”

“Hmm.” Her eyes narrowed, “I don’t suppose this would warrant pulling out your dress-uniform, would it?”

“It...might.” John didn’t see why it wouldn’t. There was nothing that said he _couldn’t_ wear his uniform to the services. He had in the past, and on other occasions it was called for as proper dress-code. “I’m not even sure the damn thing even _fits_ me anymore, with the weight I’ve lost?”

“I suppose you’ll just have to pull it out of storage and try it on for me, won’t you?”

“Why would I do that?”

“If the fundraiser is on the tenth and the memorial services are on the eleventh, it’s the sixth now, my dear.” She looked at him over the top of the file she was reading and smiled.

“Damn it.” He muttered, running one hand through his hair. “That was fast.”

“Time flies when you’re not paying attention.” She closed the file and set it on the coffee table, getting smoothly to her feet and brushing a wrinkle from her skirt with one hand. “I suppose another visit to Hoxton is in order?”

“Yep.”

“We can look into clearing out your storage-unit, you aren’t going to need it anymore.”

“I guess I won’t, huh? If I’m moving into this place?” He looked around the sitting-room, “Probably the nicest place I’ve lived in a long time.”

“You are free to find other accommodations, but I would prefer this to be your primary residence.”

“No problem.” John huffed, house-hunting was not high on his list of priorities. Irene just smiled and summoned Kate with a text. Collecting coats, wallets, and other essentials, they set off to visit Hoxton again.

 

All of John’s worldly belongings were loaded into a small van that had arrived shortly after they did and they returned to the Eaton Square house. Everything was unloaded from the van and moved into one of the spare rooms and once the movers had been paid and dismissed, John went looking for his Army gear. The kit-bags and deployment bags he left alone for the moment. His dress-uniforms were stored in garment-bags and he moved these to the closet. Taking down one of the Temperate Parade uniforms, he debated trying it on. Maybe it would still fit, he was about the size he’d been in the Army, just…skinnier. He’d lost a lot of muscle mass, but the weight-loss wasn’t as bad as he’d thought, just judging by the cut of his uniforms. Laying the uniform aside carefully, he took the time to unpack everything and put it properly away, breaking down and storing the boxes under the bed once they were empty.

 

Once he had everything sorted, leaving a box of books to put in a different part of the house, he took the uniform and went to find Irene and appease her need to see him in uniform for herself. He’d be an idiot to think she hadn’t gone looking for some of his pictures, there was plenty to be had if you knew how and where to find them. He didn’t see her in the reception rooms or the kitchen. Rosemary pointed him in the direction of Irene’s office when he found their kind housekeeper in the kitchen working on lunch.

“I believe she’s doing paperwork, dear. Whenever you two silly things can make time for it, it’s time to eat.”

“For your cooking, Rosemary, I’d cross a hundred miles of hostile desert.” John just smiled and kissed her on the cheek before heading off to get Irene. That cheeky comment, and the unsubtle theft of a cinnamon-sugar biscuit from a cooling-rack near the range, got him a swat on the hip and an eye-roll.

“Get on, you mad thing.” She scolded, sending him on his way. He chuckled and headed downstairs to the office he had spent most of yesterday afternoon in. Today, he entered on his own volition. And quickly realized what that glass enclosure was for. It was a light well atrium that had been turned into a sort of garden space. The potted plants, mostly bamboo, provided a bit of a privacy screen.

“What are you doing down here?”

“Finished unpacking, found one of my dress-uniforms.” He looked from the atrium to Irene, who sat at her desk doing paperwork. “I’ve been informed that as soon as we have time for it, lunch is non-negotiable.”

“It always is. Get used to it, she’s not going to let you get away with skipping a meal as long as you’re in the house for it.” All that got him was a raised eyebrow.

“Rosemary made it her life’s purpose to keep me from starving years ago, this is just picking up where we left off is all.” He smiled and reached across the desk, flipping the open file closed with two fingers. “Now, you can leave this behind and follow me, or I’ll meet you in time for lunch and you’ll just have to trust me when I tell you my uniform still fits. Maybe I’ll be nice and take a selfie for you.” He was halfway to the door by then and had one foot over the threshold.

“Don’t you dare.” She was up on her feet in no time, and he just smiled as she left behind what she was doing. Returning to the master suite, she made sure to lock the door once he was inside.

“You, John Watson, are an unapologetic tease.” Her voice was calm, but he knew she wasn’t as unaffected as she might think. Her eyes were too dark, the pupils too wide, and he would be damned to an eternity in Hell if she wasn’t flushed. Damn, he was good.

“Don’t look so surprised. I can behave myself, I can also be quite...naughty.” He just smiled at her and headed for the dressing-room, where he’d left his dress-uniform hanging on one of the rods attached to the built-ins. “Stay there until I tell you.”

“You’re cruel.”

“I never said I was going to behave myself.” He looked over his shoulder, “No peeking until I say. Stay. There.”

“You are awfully sassy for a sub, aren’t you?”

“Drove Sherlock bonkers.” He flashed her a wicked grin and left her sitting on the chaise, grumbling about his sudden fit of defiance. But as far as he was aware, they weren’t sceneing and this kind of behaviour was, in fact, covered in the contract. If he wasn’t being punished and they weren’t sceneing, he didn’t have to be absolutely submissive and compliant. A bit of disobedience was acceptable.

 

It didn’t take him long to get out of the trousers, button-down, and jumper he’d worn most of the day, but he took his time with the uniform. He hadn’t worn one in a few years, it felt like, but there was something therapeutic, ritualistic about putting it on again. To his everlasting shock, the bloody thing fit damn near perfectly. It was a bit loose in the hips, but that wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle, and the trousers weren’t about to fall off his body.

“I’ll be damned.” He murmured, looking at his reflection over his shoulder. “Lookin’ sharp, Captain. Lookin’ good.” He smiled and tugged on the skirt of the tunic, brushing a wrinkle out of the sleeve. He had campaign medals and orders for ceremonial display, but he hadn’t put them on. Well, not all of them. He had the Victoria Cross and the Distinguished Service medals, might as well flaunt a bit.

“Irene?” He called from the doorway of the dressing-room.

“What?”

“You’re never going to believe this, but the bloody thing actually _fits_.”

“It _does_?” He heard the interest in her voice. “Well, show me, for Christ’s sake! Now!”

“As my lady commands.” He smirked and stepped out. Let’s see just how she liked a man in uniform.

* * *

* * *


	9. My Kind of Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene Adler nearly always gets what she wants. She wants John Watson in Temperate Parade Dress uniform? She gets John Watson in Temperate Parade Dress uniform. She likes what she sees and decides her Captain has earned a reward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up immediately where Altered Ways left off. This is all from Irene's POV. A bit of smutty goodness here. Always Safe, Sane, and Consensual. Rule #1, ALWAYS.  
> ::  
> Much thanks as always to D for being my muse and sounding-board. And for helping me out with Irene's special treat for John, for telling me it wasn't awful. Love you, my dear!

* * *

* * *

Irene had expected some degree of independence from John, but not outright defiance. Naughtiness. Sass. Oh, she had a real keeper with John Watson, didn’t she? He wasn’t afraid to push his limits, afraid to push _her_ limits. And since they weren’t sceneing or under punishment, he was allowed to act out a bit. But this wasn’t just acting out, this was...flirting. He came to her in the office and basically gave her an ultimatum.

“Now, you can leave this behind and follow me, or I’ll meet you in time for lunch and you’ll just have to trust me when I tell you my uniform still fits. Maybe I’ll be nice and take a selfie for you.” He was halfway to the door by then and had one foot over the threshold. But Irene wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t about to throw away a chance to see, for herself, how John looked in uniform.

“Don’t you dare.” She was up on her feet in no time, and he just smiled as she left behind what she was doing. Returning to the master suite, she made sure to lock the door once he was inside.

“You, John Watson, are an unapologetic tease.” Her voice was calm, but they both knew she wasn’t as unaffected as she might like to think. Her eyes were too dark, the pupils too wide, and they would both be damned to an eternity in Hell if she wasn’t flushed. Damn, he was good. He hadn’t even done anything yet.

“Don’t look so surprised. I can behave myself, I can also be quite...naughty.” He just smiled at her and headed for the dressing-room, where he’d left his dress-uniform hanging on one of the rods attached to the built-ins. “Stay there until I tell you.”

“You’re cruel.”

“I never said I was going to behave myself.” He looked over his shoulder, “No peeking until I say. Stay. There.”

“You are awfully sassy for a sub, aren’t you?”

“Drove Sherlock bonkers.” He flashed her a wicked grin and left her sitting on the chaise, grumbling about his sudden fit of defiance. But they weren’t sceneing and this kind of behaviour was, in fact, covered in the contract. If he wasn’t being punished and they weren’t sceneing, he didn’t have to be absolutely submissive and compliant. A bit of disobedience was acceptable.

 

She’d spent several of the hours they had been apart hunting down every picture of him in uniform she could get her hands on, and when he had mentioned the Remembrance Day ceremonies, she had sudden visions of John in dress-uniform dancing through her head.

“Irene?” He called from the doorway of the dressing-room, startling her from her musings. That annoyed her, she disliked being caught unawares.

“What?” She snapped, trying to sound like she hadn’t been caught red-handed in the middle of daydreaming.

“You’re never going to believe this, but the bloody thing actually _fits_.”

“It _does_?” The interest in her voice was poorly veiled. She sounded...needy. Damn it.

“Well, show me, for Christ’s sake! Now!”

“As my lady commands.” He stepped out a moment later and she got her first look at Captain John Watson, a good, long, proper look. Oh, Christ. Oh, she was in trouble. Pictures were one thing, but in person? That was something else. Something...special. Christ. Irene tried to look unaffected, but John wasn’t stupid or unaware of how women reacted to him.

“Oh, _Captain_.” She got up from the chaise, ignoring her phone as it dropped to the floor.

“Well?” He folded his hands behind his back as he stood for her inspection, “What do you think?”

“Oh my God.” She circled around behind him, resisting the urge to touch every inch of him, to find out what the material of his uniform felt like against her skin.

“Do you like what you see, Miss Adler?”

“Oh, very much.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’m afraid to let you out of my sight ever again. This is what you look like in proper uniform. Dear God.”

“This meets your approval?”

“Absolutely.” She stood in front of him and looked up just that bit to meet his gaze. God damn it, he was almost too handsome. Still too skinny for anyone’s liking, scruffier than regulation, his hair was far too long to be considered anywhere close to regulation length, but the sight of him in the dark khaki was doing things. Apparently, Irene had a thing for soldiers. No, just one. Just _her_ soldier. Her Captain. What a lucky, lucky woman she was. Could she afford to be generous with him and allow him to pursue relationships outside of their arrangement? Or would she be selfish and keep him all to herself? She didn’t like the idea of anyone else touching him, looking at him, or even _thinking_ about him.

“Terribly selfish of you, Miss Adler.”

“I didn’t say anything, Captain.”

“Plain as day on your face, my love.” He smiled and touched her cheek, “You like what you see and you don’t want to share it with anyone else.”

“Christ, you’re a smart man.”

“I know how to treat a woman. How to please her. Sometimes a word, sometimes a glance, sometimes a touch. Or all three together.”

“This...this is an all three together, I think.” She remembered how to breathe, how to _speak_ at all. “Captain, please.”

“Hmm?”

“Please, let me...take care of you.” She reached for him, desperate to touch _something_. Her hand landed on his cheek, the familiar scratch of his beard against her palm was electrifying.

“I wonder what you have in mind, what’s in that pretty head of yours.” His smile softened and he turned his head, kissing her hand. She couldn’t help a soft sigh. Tugging on the belt-loops of his trousers, she steered him towards the bed, rarely losing contact with him.

“How do you want me, my love?”

“Edge of the mattress. Just sit there. I’ll take care of you.” Irene pushed him back until he was forced to sit. “I want you to pay very close attention to what I do and how I do it.” She said calmly as she stepped closer to him and beckoned with one hand. He obediently sat at the edge of the mattress, awaiting her next order. Inspired, and feeling mischievous, Irene played a dirty trick and made use of a silk restraint to bind his hands up behind his back.

“Cheat!” he hissed, tugging against the loose bonds, “You play a dirty game, madam.”

“Did I ever say I played by the  _rules_?” She grinned at him, standing before him with a smug smile on her lips.

“You have a plan, then?”

“Simple one, really. You just let me take care of you.” She didn’t miss the way his eyes widened when she dropped into a comfortable kneel at his feet. Without her having to say a word, he made room for her between his thighs. She appreciated his anticipation, his willingness. Irene studied him from this angle, running her fingers along the inseam of his trousers, taking note of the texture against her skin, the roughness of the fabric. She reached for the waistband of his trousers, pushing aside the fabric of his tunic and loosening the belt. That was done with her hands, she got creative with the zip-fly of his trousers. Irene dipped her head down and pulled the stiff zipper down with her teeth. Even through several layers of fabric, she could smell him, feel him.

 

She heard the soft, sharp inhale as the cool air hit his erection, which was already stirring as she tugged down on his trousers and pants just enough to free him for some playtime. She was right between his knees and had a chance to study and appreciate his very lovely cock. She loved a chance to give it the kind of adoration it deserved. His hand was in her hair, not tight, just resting there, holding on, carefully-trimmed fingernails scratching pleasantly against her scalp if she moved just so. He’d gotten one hand free, then. She threw him a reprimanding look, he just gave her a sweet, “sorry I didn’t listen, please forgive me” smile. She shook her head and chuckled.

“Eager lad.” Irene murmured. She carefully pushed his pants and trousers down further until they caught around his ankles, noticing how they more or less served as restraints of their own kind. Without warning him, she got his legs over her shoulders and tipped him onto his back. The startled yelp was quickly muffled and if she hadn’t been busy with something far more interesting than his indignation, she would have laughed at him. She pressed a kiss to the inside of his left knee, marking an old scar there from some forgotten childhood incident, and proceeded to kiss, nuzzle, and caress her way up to her goal. She came upon one scar, white with age, in a very concerning place and paused to regard it carefully. Irene praised whatever benevolent deity had been looking after John Watson the day he’d been the victim of an assault that had resulted in a wound three centimetres to the left of his femoral artery. It was a broad scar, the wound had been significant. Possibility of a nicked artery, he was fortunate he hadn’t bled to death. Had Bill Murray, his trusted nurse and right-hand man, been with him, there to provide necessary field first-aid until proper help could be found? Or had he been with someone else less knowledgeable? She kissed the scar, reminded herself to ask for the story later, and kept moving.

 

Finally, she reached the object of her mission and she smiled, leaning in to nuzzle the crease of hip and thigh, before moving further along and finding that sweet-spot at his perineum. Oh, the noise he made when she kissed  _right there_  was beautiful. Irene chuckled and leaned in to explore every glorious inch, cataloguing taste, texture, and size, licking a broad stripe from the quivering pucker of his very lovely arse to the tip of his equally lovely, equally twitchy member. She maintained eye contact as she ran her tongue around the head. She wrapped one of her hands around the base and gave a stroke before she leaned forward to press a kiss to the soft, hot flesh, admiring the red lipstick mark against the slightly-dusky skin as she reached down to fondle his balls, which were not quite heavy but a pleasant weight in her palm and a delicious handful.

 

She followed that up with an honest attempt to deep-throat her cocky sub. Wetting her lips with her tongue, she looked up at him and smiled before closing her lips carefully around the length sitting at attention, waiting for any attention to be lavished on it. John’s hips twitched eagerly as she worked his hard cock. She slid her tongue along a prominent vein on the underside, eliciting a low guttural moan from John as she played with the frenulum a bit and teased at the slit.

 

It wasn’t that oral sex was her favourite thing or something she did often, but she loved foreplay for it and exploring her partner’s most intimate of intimates like this. And she happened to be rather good at it, so that didn’t hurt at all either. This wasn’t the first time she had done this to John, but there was something special about this time. This was taking apart a man one piece at a time and laying his soul bare to the world. Oh, the noises were downright scandalous! Lovely, lovely, absolutely fantastic. Irene pulled off long enough to look up at his face and raised an eyebrow.

“Quiet, sweetheart.” She murmured, nuzzling his thigh, “Don’t want all of London to hear, do we?”

“Bollocks all of London! What are you  _doing_?”

“Something I am rather good at but don’t do very often.” She pressed a kiss to the flushed tip, “Please don’t ask me to stop.”

“Please don’t stop!” He huffed.

“Then be  _quiet_. If I have to, I will gag you.” She shoved him back on the mattress and climbed up onto the bed, crowding over him, “You lovely, ruined thing. My fault?”

“Completely!”

“I’d apologise, but that would be lying.” She leaned down and kissed him. “Not a word out of you, my dear.” John whined, whimpered even, as she carefully gagged him with another length of silk restraint and got back to her original goal. She took just the head into her mouth, suckling on it for a bit. He thrashed and whined, and she rolled her eyes as she pinned his legs in place over her shoulders before going down on him and deep-throating him. If he hadn’t been gagged, neighbours would have heard him scream. She chuckled and set to work seeing how far she could push. A familiar, long-missed saltiness flooded over her tongue after a while, and she carefully pulled back, pushing up on her elbows as his left leg slipped from her shoulder.

“You alright, love?” She asked of her wrecked lover. He nodded frantically, chest heaving. She smiled and leaned down to kiss him on the cheek.

“How do you want me to finish you off, then, Captain?” She whispered, nipping at his jaw. John groaned, a long, deep, pained sound as she rubbed his chest, enjoying the sensation of his uniform against her skin. Using her teeth, she loosened the knot on the gag and it slipped free.

“Finish me off indeed! You sly little minx!” He gasped once he was free, “Have mercy, woman!”

“Then I’ll do this properly.” She dropped a quick peck on his lips and went back down to finish what she’d started. Irene smacked her lips appreciatively, “Lovely, lovely man. All mine for taking.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ.” He breathed, fingers tight in her hair as she went right back to business. It sounded like he was reciting the names of every saint ever recorded, in alphabetical order. Irene hummed, causing him to gasp and his hips to stutter. She had him secure, she was in no danger of being kicked or choked as she carefully pulled him to that edge and over into climactic bliss.

“Irene!” He gasped, “Irene!” Something muffled his hoarse yell as his climax thundered through him like a tidal wave and she was pleased to take every last drop. 

 

As soon as he began to soften, she licked him clean and hopped from the bed. Once in the loo, she brushed her teeth and rinsed with mouthwash before fetching up a couple of warm, damp flannels to clean up. Returning to the bed, she was careful with her clean-up and tossed aside the soiled flannels. She rubbed along twitching muscles, soothing out the last bits of that endorphin rush, paying special attention to his knees and thighs. She wiped him down again with a cool cloth, laying a clean, damp folded flannel over his face, and carefully put him back together, tracking his come-down with two fingers pressed to his wrist. After a while, he tugged against her grip and she raised her head.

“Finally back with the living souls?” She watched him. He pushed the cloth on his face up enough to look at her and grinned. It was a loopy, cocky smile.

“You, my darling, are a wonder. What on earth did I ever do to deserve _that_ kind of treatment?”

“Well, it might have had a bit to do with this uniform of yours, which is unsullied by any of our recent exertions, I promise you.” She stroked the lapel of his tunic, “I’m so glad it still fits you.”

“So am I.” He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I may be the luckiest son of a bitch in London. Definitely the luckiest sub.”

“Then I am the most fortunate domme. And luckier still than you.” She let him sit up and smoothed a wrinkle out of his sleeve. “Go get changed. Take care returning this to its hangars.”

“Should probably have it dry-cleaned and pressed for the weekend, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely. Leave that to me, darling.” She smiled as he got up and headed off to the dressing room, back in minutes dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing before electing to give her a bit of a preview and she had decided for herself that a bit of a reward was in order. This coming weekend was going to be one for the record books, she was sure of it.

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	10. Dogs of the Desert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Irene attend the first of the charity events planned for their weekend, and John introduces her to a few of the people who more or less kept him out of trouble during the year he was gone. A brief encounter with Mycroft Holmes ends peacefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bring some RL people into the story here, the people and organization are all quite real. Pen Farthing and the good folks at Nowzad Dogs are phenomenal and brave. Links at the end, please go take a look.

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John purchased two tickets to Nowzad Dogs’ Nowzad November Night on the 10th with Irene as his plus-one and personally called Pen to let him know they were coming. It was a bit of a dress-up event, and John’s uniform had been sent for cleaning and a bit of alterations for the trousers after he’d tried it on that once. Irene settled on a fairly modest black sleeveless pencil dress that still didn’t do much to hide her curves. He got a haircut and shaved when Irene decided he might as well look proper and clean-shaven, which he didn’t mind at all.

 

 When they arrived at the venue on the night of the event, dropped off by Kate, John got out first and turned to give Irene a hand onto the footpath.

“My lady.”

“Thank you, sir.” Irene smiled and took his hand in hers. Once they were both on the footpath, he closed the door. Looking over his shoulder at the venue, John felt a tug in his chest. This was the first time he would be in contact with anyone from his Army service since 2011, but Pen was a good friend of his and had made a point of reaching out to John after Sherlock’s death. It had actually been Pen’s idea for him to move out of London, which he had initially been reluctant to do, but he had ultimately followed his friend’s advice and left London behind for a year.

“What are you thinking?” Irene whispered as they entered Audley Pub and made their way to Bitter Sling Basement Bar, one of the venue’s private-hire rooms.

“I owe Pen and Hannah a lot, they’re the ones who talked me into leaving London after the funeral.” He took it easy on the stairs, making use of his cane as he needed it. Irene just smiled and squeezed his arm.

 

When they got down to the room, he handed over their tickets and coats and started looking for Pen. They weren’t the first people to arrive, by a long shot, but he was a bit relieved to note that there were no faces among the current patrons that he recognized. That would very likely change, and that was fine.

“Jack!” Someone called out, diverting John’s attention. “Hey, Watson! Oi!”

“Incoming,” Irene whispered. John turned to look and was just about bowled off his feet by the man who came to meet them.

“God, mate, good to see you! So glad you could come, I was shocked when you called and said you had tickets to this party!” It was Pen, who wasn’t all that different from the way John remembered. “Jesus, it’s been, what, six months? How’ve you been, mate?”

“Pen, hey.” John gave Pen a quick one-armed hug, “Good to see you, thanks for having us.”

“You look like shite, brother.” Pen looked him over, “Haven’t you been taking care of yourself?”

“Not like I should be.” He looked at Irene, who just watched and smiled. “Where’s Hannah? She around here somewhere?”

“Over by the bar chatting up some high-class bloke, not a clue who it is.”

“Where?” He turned to look around. Pen pointed out his partner, Hannah Surowinski, who was indeed at the bar chatting with someone who had their back to the rest of the room. But John wasn’t an idiot, he could pick out either of the Holmes brothers in a crowd from twenty yards.

“Well, I knew my luck would run out eventually.” He huffed, not missing that Irene had disappeared. He quickly located _her_ talking to Molly Hooper.

“Of _course_ they came. Should’ve known.”

“Somebody you know?” Pen asked carefully.                           

“Yeah, somebody I know. Say what he was here for?”

“Not a bleeding clue, haven’t had a chance to speak to ‘im yet. According to our lists, he’s one of our donors.”

“He’s not just a donor, Pen. Come on, I’ll introduce you.” John sighed and headed for the bar. He was going to need a drink anyway to get through tonight. When they got to the bar, Mycroft had already spotted them and John did not miss the way his eyes widened a bit.

“Doctor Watson?” He sounded almost mystified as they shook hands, “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Sergeant Farthing and I are old service-mates, Mr Holmes.” John gave Mycroft a benign smile, “Nowzad Dogs is actually our joint project, more or less.”

“Is _that_ why you were so adamant when you came to us about financing rescues from my brother’s list?”

“Absolutely.” He looked at Pen, who just raised an eyebrow. “Sergeant Paul Farthing, Mycroft Holmes. I think you can guess what my association with _him_ might be.”

“Cor, you’re not the ones behind Nowzad Dogs Home Safe Trust, are you?” Pen blinked, “Oh, Jesus, sir! A pleasure to meet you!”

“You can thank Doctor Watson for spearheading the efforts to start the trust fund, Sergeant, he was very passionate, quite adamant. It was much of my brother’s inspiration, as well, he’s always been quite fond of dogs.”

“Your brother was Sherlock, yeah?” Pen smiled as they shook hands, “Yeh, I remember him. Met at a charity gala back in 2010, good bloke. A bit, eh, blunt, but I liked ‘im.”

“You would be one of few, I’m afraid, Sergeant.” Mycroft looked around a bit, “Thank you for having us.”

“My pleasure, sir, thank _you_ for providing so much aid through the trust. We’ve put it to rather good use, I’m pleased to say. Saved quite a few animals with it.”

“I don’t suppose any of your rescues are _here_ , are they?”

“One of mine is, sir.” Pen said with a smile, “If you’d like to meet them?”

“Absolutely, I’d be delighted.” Mycroft’s responding smile was genuine. John suspected that he and Sherlock shared that fondness for dogs, regardless of whether or not they’d actually had any as children.

“My brother was always after my parents for a dog when we were children, but my father’s allergy kept us from ever making good of that desire.”

“What about Redbeard?” John asked curiously. Mycroft sighed and shook his head.

“I believe Redbeard was a neighbour’s dog, but you couldn’t have convinced my brother of that.”

“But the dog did exist? I’ve seen pictures.”

“Oh, of course. But it was not _our_ dog.” Mycroft shrugged and John knew it was best to drop the subject. Something was missing in that equation, but he wasn’t about to worry about that right now.

 

Pen happily took them to a small enclosure on the raised area of the room and opened the gate to let out the dog inside. John recognized Nowzad, of course.

“Oh, Nowzad, look at you!” John smiled as Nowzad came over to say hello, “Hello my handsome boy! Hello, yes, I know. Six months, you silly thing, not a lifetime.”

“To him, it has been.” Pen laughed as Nowzad reared up on his hindquarters and put his paws on John’s shoulders, “Absolutely no manners at all on him, are there?”

“Down, you great monster!” John shoved Nowzad away and back onto all fours, ruffling his ears and fur, “Yes, I know you’re happy to see me. I’m happy to see you, too.”

“I’m afraid you might have send your uniform for cleaning after that idiot jumped all over you like a pup, Jack, so sorry.” Pen patted Nowzad on the head. “You’re a bit of a moron, Nowz.”

“What a beautiful dog. I take it he is not purebred?” Mycroft was intrigued by Nowzad.

“Purebred doesn’t really exist around there, short of the working dogs the military and contractors bring in.” John watched as Nowzad introduced himself with a cautious sniff before deciding Mycroft was alright and getting bolder to ask for a bit of a fuss.

“Lovely dog. Sherlock would be rather envious, I imagine.” Mycroft said softly as he gave Nowzad the attention he’d asked for.

“Well, well, what are you three talking about over here?” They were interrupted by the women, their respective partners. Hannah came alongside Pen. “Heads together like a couple of conspirators.”

“Nothing terribly interesting or important, love,” Pen promised, not quite meaning it.

“Huh. Plotting the downfall of rival governments, I bet.” Hannah rolled her eyes and kissed her partner on the cheek before turning to John and Mycroft.

“Hello, John.”

“Hannah. Thanks for having us.”

“Absolutely thrilled you made it. This one spent two hours in tears after you called.”

“I did no such thing, stop spreading lies about me, woman!” Pen gave her a look and John snickered.

“If I know anything about that one, it’s more than just _plotting_ ,” Irene whispered conspiratorially, giving Mycroft a measured look.

“Not that he’d ever admit it.” Molly smiled, hiding her amusement in her drink.

“Molly!” Mycroft affected a front of horror, but Molly just waved him off. John kept his mouth shut and took the glass Irene handed him.

“Thank you, my dear.”

“I hope you’re not planning anything exciting without me, Captain?”

“No, ma’am.” He smiled and looked down as Nowzad got between them, not very subtle about it. “Oh, stand down, you mad thing.”

“Who is this, then?”

“This is Nowzad. He’s one of Pen’s rescues. Your first, wasn’t he?”

“You helped me rescue him, don’t you remember?”

“He’s lovely.” Irene held her hand out to let Nowzad inspect her and John met Mycroft’s curious gaze. He could tell the other man was puzzled and shrugged. It didn’t surprise him that Nowzad would be a bit defensive of strangers getting too friendly with John, he’d always been like that, and Irene was a complete stranger to the former street-dog.

“So, Jack, I noticed you were using this rickety old thing again.” Pen put an arm around John’s shoulders and tapped at the cane in his right hand with one foot. “What’s this for?”

“Had a rough go of things the last couple of months is all. Bloody knee about gave out on me last week.” He shrugged, not missing the wicked little smile on Irene’s face. That was a bit of a white lie, not that anyone else in their group had to know what had really happened that day.

“Can’t be _all_ bad, though.” Pen looked at Irene and grinned, “Always did have good taste with the ladies.”

“Oi, that’s enough out of you, Sergeant Farthing.” John snapped good-naturedly.

“Sorry, not sorry, Captain Watson.”

“Of course you’re not,” John said, swallowing half of that with a sip of his drink.

“Boys, boys, we’re all adults here.” Irene scolded, coming up on John’s other side and linking her arm through his, “Now, Captain, do be a proper gentleman and introduce me to your intriguing friend.”

“I’d be thrilled to. You already know Mr Holmes, of course, and Doctor Hooper.” John looked at the pair, who were, of course, polite, if not a little confused. “But I’d love to introduce you to this particular gentleman. Irene Adler, this is Paul Farthing, he’s the mastermind behind Nowzad Dogs and the rescue efforts in Afghanistan. And his partner, Hannah Surowinski. Hannah, Pen, this is Irene.”

“It’s a pleasure.” Irene smiled at Pen and offered her hand. John saw the wheels turning as Pen tried to figure out where he might have heard Irene’s name before.

“If you’re wondering why my name sounds familiar, you might have heard mention of me in John’s blog.”

“Did I say something?”

“She’s very good at reading people, Sergeant.” Mycroft supplied quietly, “Miss Adler is one of a kind and quite possibly one of the most influential people in London.”

“I thought that was _your_ job, Mr Holmes,” Irene said calmly.

“A different manner of influence, I’m afraid, Miss Adler.”

“Hmm. Humility does not become you, Mr Holmes.”

“I like your girlfriend.” Pen whispered in John’s other ear, “She’s fucking gorgeous. And she’s smart.”

“It’s either the best idea I’ve had in eighteen months or the worst. But she gave me a place to go when I got out of jail, so I kind of owe her that.”

“You could do worse.” Pen smiled as they went to sit down at one of the tables.

 

As the evening progressed, John enjoyed himself, sticking mostly to his small group of friends and acquaintances. He and Mycroft were civil to each other, he made no mention of what his exact relationship with Irene was, for all Mycroft knew they had simply met and talked a bit and she had offered to accompany him to the charity event. That was fine with him, he wanted to wait a few months and settle into whatever this was before going public with it. Pen and Hannah were thrilled John had someone to stay with, talk to, and reminded him that if he was ever in need, their door was open to him. He appreciated that, he really did.

 

Kate picked them up at the appointed hour and drove them home. It had been a good night. John was properly tipsy, Irene had enjoyed her share of cocktails, so they were in good spirits. Irene had entered the raffle, making a separate donation to Nowzad Dogs on John’s behalf in addition because she understood how important it was to him. He could honestly say that his life was looking much better, his future far more promising than it had even six months ago, certainly better than it had a month ago.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to Nowzad Dogs website: https://www.nowzad.com/home/our-mission


	11. Bravery At The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets some case-work in with Greg, which leads to a nonviolent confrontation with Anderson. John knows when to pick his fights and he's never gotten along with Anderson, so it's in his better interests to remain passive.

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* * *

The next day, while Irene saw to a full roster of clients, John spent some time scouring job-listings just for kicks and browsing Nowzad Dogs’ website for available rescues looking for their forever homes. He ended up making a list, several were dogs he remembered from his days in Afghanistan that had not found their homes yet. On a whim, he also searched local shelters and rescues figuring it couldn’t do any harm to inquire a bit closer to home than a foreign country. Even if he did know a great deal about the country in question.

 

Around noon, Greg called him for help on a case they’d just got in. John was quick to agree and went to find Irene, who was between clients just at the moment. When he appeared in the doorway of her office, shrugging into his coat, she was on the phone. She raised her eyes to see him and lifted a finger. John simply dropped to one knee and waited. The phone-call she was on didn’t last much longer and soon she returned the receiver to the base, writing something in her appointment diary.

“Where, exactly, do you think you’re going, Captain?” She asked casually, not looking at him.

“Inspector Lestrade called with a case he could use my help on, Miss Adler.”

“Mhm. And what did the contract say about your freedom to take work as you liked?”

“That you would not keep me from it.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I wanted to let you know I was leaving, Miss Adler, that I had a case on and I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

“You may stand up.” She looked up as he got carefully to his feet, using the cane as an aid, “You have your coat, I see. Do you have your phone, your wallet, and your side-arm, Captain?”

“Yes to all three, Miss Adler. I shouldn’t need my Browning, but it’s better to be prepared if I’m working for Lestrade’s people.”

“Good. You know the rules.” She closed her appointment diary and looked at him, her gaze steady and serious. “Keep in touch, check in every hour, and let me know if you’re going to be late returning home.” Late returning home meant after midnight, which he had done only once since moving into Irene’s house.

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“Good luck, and my regards to Lestrade, it must be a particularly difficult case if he needs your help.”

“Or a very simple case. I think he likes making sure I feel like I’m still useful.”

“Oh, you’re plenty _useful_.” Irene said as she picked up her phone as it buzzed on the desk, glancing at it after unlocking the screen, “Hmm, my next client is here. You can get on your way.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” John smiled and crossed the office to the desk, leaning over it to kiss her goodbye.

“You are a bit of a proper distraction, Captain.” She scolded him when he pulled away, not really meaning any of it. He took a deep breath, filling his senses with the scent of his domme. He sighed and stepped back, heading for the door.

“I’ll stay in touch. Good luck.”

“Be good.”

“I’ll try, but I make no promises.”

“That is all I can reasonably ask of you. Just do try to refrain from starting any fights with Lestrade’s lot, will you?”

“I don’t start those fights, Madam.”

“But you are rather good at finishing them, aren’t you?”

“If I must, Madam.” He just smiled over his shoulder at her and blew her a kiss as he walked away. Her laughter followed him out and he headed upstairs to get on his way. It wasn’t unusual for him to meet any of Irene’s clients who came to call on the Belgravia house for her services, and he saw all sorts from the upper classes and a few middle-classers as well. The number of people from positions of power in government he’d seen in and out in just the one week he’d been living here was kind of baffling.

 

He knew members of the Royal Family were on her client-list, but there were others, too. Names he knew from the news, from politics. The sorts Sherlock had scoffed at. A couple of Yarders, as well, among the middlers she serviced. It was interesting, but he never pushed her to give him details about her clients, unless he knew them more personally. When he got to the door, Kate was just opening it to let in Irene’s next client. She smiled as John stood aside.

“Off for a bit, Captain?”

“Greg needs me.”

“My best to his team.” She pulled the door open and schooled a neutral expression for the client. “Good afternoon, Prime Minister.” John waited until the client was inside before slipping out with a quick nod and avoided eye-contact. Why was he _not_ surprised the Prime Minister was one of Irene’s clients? He caught sight of Greg’s car idling at the kerb, Greg himself stood outside leaning against the bumper, a cigarette between his lips as he watched the comings and goings on their street. When he spotted John, he grinned and hitched a thumb at the door of the house. He just nodded.

“Yeah, you saw that.”

“Jesus, what kind of trip does he get off on?”

“Not a bleeding clue. Not really my business, is it?” John shrugged and got into Greg’s car, “We get all sorts ‘round here.” 

“Yeah, I guess you do!” Greg said with a chuckle as he got in and started the car.

“So, where are we off to?”

“Uh, Richmond. Figured it couldn’t hurt to get you out for a bit of a run.”

“Ta for that.” John just smiled and got comfortable for the drive out to the scene. It was quiet, Greg kept the conversation running on neutral subjects and filled him in on the case. It was a fairly simple case, pretty straight-forward, but just interesting enough to bring him in on it. Greg wanted a second medical opinion and John was the best he had.

“So, uh, what’s the fancy-dancy get-up for, then?” Greg asked as they ducked the line at the scene, waved through by Sally Donovan. John looked at what he was wearing and sighed.

“Remembrance Day.”

“Oh, yeah. Thought you were marching this year?”

“Nope. But there’s a service I want to make at three, promised a friend of mine I’d try to make it.”

“It’s just one now, where is the service taking place?”

“The Animals In War Memorial on Park Road.”

“Sure, I’m pretty sure I can get you out of here in time.” Greg smiled and looked at Donovan. “Where are we, Donovan?”

“Anderson’s just there, sir.” Donovan pointed to where they could see Philip Anderson waiting outside the door of the house in question. “Doctor Watson.”

“Sergeant Donovan.” John gave the woman a polite nod. He was about three steps past her when he remembered something and turned around, getting something from his pocket. “Oh, Donovan?”

“Hmm?”

“If you’re looking for a bit of relief, give this a try.” He tossed her a small tube of ointment usually used to treat nap-rash and the like. He had learned a long time ago that it was perfect for bondage after-care. Donovan caught the after-care item in one hand and looked at it, momentarily confused before it occurred to her just _why_ he would give her something like it. With a slight flush in her cheeks, she carefully pocketed the ointment and gave him a slightly-embarrassed smile. He knew the value of discretion and just gave her a wink in response.

Catching up with Greg, who had gone into the house, he quickly shed his coat, taking the blue Tyvek suit to protect his clothes.

“What was that all about?” Greg asked quietly.

“Not sure what she did, but Donovan got herself a bit roughed last week. Asked if I had anything to help, kind of forgot until now.” He shrugged, knowing Greg probably wouldn’t pry any further. He wasn’t quite sure if Greg knew about his sergeant’s proclivities or not and wasn’t going to out her if he didn’t.

“Guess it’s a good thing you travel with your work, eh?” Greg just smiled benignly and led him to the victim’s body.

 

As soon as he saw it, John knew exactly what the cause-of-death was. Anderson declared quite loudly that _he_ thought it was strangulation. But it was more than that. The victim had been bound, hand and foot, and John saw signs of BDSM play all over the scene.

“Either this was a complete accident, or it was deliberate homicide.” He muttered, studying the bruising and restraint marks on the victim’s body.

“What do you see, John?” Greg asked calmly, standing behind him as he examined the room for evidence.

“Young male, early twenties, in a committed relationship.”

“Think this was a crime of passion?” Greg inquired.

“Yes, but if it was, it may not be quite...standard.” He took the victim’s hand, careful not to disturb the cuffs. “Was he found like this?”

“Yes, his boyfriend called it in, said he found him just like this. There was no sign of forced entry, so whoever this was, they knew the victim.”

“Well, it’s definitely a sexual crime, and a crime of passion.”

“What makes you think it might be accidental?” Greg was familiar with John’s method and knew what kind of questions to ask to guide his deductions.

“The victim, and very likely his boyfriend, engaged in BDSM.”

“Bondage? You must be joking!” Anderson snorted, “How would you know that?”

“The restraints are a certain brand commonly used by people engaging in dom/sub play. You can see the chaffing on his wrist from prior sessions.” Pointing out the reddened skin on the victim’s left wrist. “There’s a pattern of wounds on the victim’s body consistent with whipping, I’d say a riding crop was used.”

“A riding crop?”

“Yes. This one, actually.” He picked up a discarded riding crop that had fallen and landed partially under the bed itself. There was evidence of dried sweat and blood on the tongue, and on the grip.

“But that’s not what killed the victim, is it?”

“No, cause-of-death was asphyxiation. Autoerotic asphyxiation.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“That’s a _lifestyle_ , Anderson.” He frowned at the man, “Don’t criticise something you don’t fully understand.”

“What would _you_ know about it, Watson?” Anderson sneered. John had promised to behave himself, and he knew exactly what kind of punishment his domme served when he misbehaved. He didn’t think picking a fight with Anderson would be grounds for the kind of punishment he went through a week ago, but he wasn’t about to test that theory. Not if she had to deal with the likes of the Prime Minister, she would be in a very foul mood after that, she always was when she had to deal with certain of her clients. Some were seen on a monthly basis, some more frequently, and he wasn’t certain where the PM fell on that scale.

“Watson, don’t.” Greg whispered, “She’ll put you to rights again and you won’t sit still for a week.”

“All she said was not to start fights. Didn’t say anything about finishing them.”

“Damn, you got lucky, didn’t you?”

“I promised I would try to behave myself.” John sighed and turned to Anderson.

“After you, Watson.” Greg murmured, giving John a pat on the arm as he stepped out of the way just in case they fell to blows.

“I think I know a bit more about bondage play and submission that you do, Anderson. Not that it’s _any_ of your business.”

“Oh, yeah. You used to kneel for The Freak all the time! Just sat there and took it, did whatever he said.”

“Anderson, don’t,” Greg said quietly, a warning Anderson was going to ignore. John wasn’t interested in fighting over semantics right now. He had better things to do with his time.

“You know something, Anderson? I don’t care what you think you know, because it’s wrong. I can’t change your mind about it, but Sherlock and I switched, regularly. We took turns with it, took care of each other after, made sure we were both happy and healthy.” John squared his shoulders, made eye-contact with the cocky, arrogant specialist, “If he was here right now, he’d tear you apart with a few words. I could beat you silly for being a rude, ignorant moron, but my domme asked me to behave myself while I was here, and I promised her I would.”

“Go ahead, Watson! Hit me, see what happens!”

“No, thank you. You’re not even worth the effort. As satisfying as it would be, it’s not worth it to me.” He turned from Anderson and looked at Greg. “You’ll want to talk to the boyfriend first and if he didn’t do it, he’ll be able to point us in the direction of another suspect.”

“That works for me. It’s not even half-two, can I talk you into giving your statement now?”

“Yeah, no problem.” He brushed off the Tyvek coverall.

“Alright, Anderson, call in your team. Don’t botch up the evidence, we still need to collect everything.” Greg looked at Anderson as he held the door for John, “And you shape up or I’ll put you back on desk-duty so fast your fucking head will spin. Act like you care more about your job than gossip-fodder and insulting my informant.” Before Anderson could say another word, they were gone. John discarded his protective gear while Greg sent a car back to Headquarters once he had convinced the boyfriend to come in for questioning, just a few standard questions about their relationship and if he knew anyone who might want to hurt the victim or kill them.

“Come on, John, let’s get you to Headquarters.” Greg tossed his keys as they left the house.

“Sorry about that, Greg.”

“Oh, God, no! You were great, and you’re probably right, too. You’ve got better self-control than a lot of folks, anyone else would’ve beat Anderson senseless.”

“I would have if I didn’t know exactly what Irene would do if I told her about it.”

“Honestly, I think she would have understood and been a bit more lenient,” Greg said as they got to his car and got on their way. The drive back to Headquarters was quiet like the drive out had been, and Greg ended up making a detour when the commute took an hour because of delays and detours on the route due to the Remembrance Day parades.

“Well, we can try for the ceremony at Park Lane if you want.”

“Do you mind?” John felt bad about the mismanagement of Greg’s time, but this was something important to him, something he wanted to do.

“Absolutely, this is important for you. Come on, I’ll get your statements later.” Greg just smiled and made a turn.

 

It didn’t take long to reach the memorial, and John was pleased with the crowd that had gathered. It wasn’t a very large affair, but it still meant something for the people who’d shown up. As they joined the small crowd, a little girl carrying a basket spotted them and perked up when she saw John’s uniform. She tugged on her guardian’s hand, John didn’t know if it was a parent or other family member, excited to see another veteran in the crowd.

“Incoming.” He murmured, straightening his beret and giving the skirt of his tunic a quick tug.

“Must be the uniform.” Greg said quietly, smiling, “All the girls love a man in uniform.”

“Hush, you.” John rolled his eyes. The girl reached them finally and stood before them, looking up at John with wide brown eyes. She was probably six or seven, and a lapel-pin attached to her coat indicated that she was family to a service-member.

“Are you John Watson?” She asked in a soft young voice.

“Yes, I am. What’s your name?”

“I’m...Maryland McGuinness.”

“Your dad’s Samuel McGuinness?”

“Yessir.”

“Jesus, I remember you as a newborn.” He settled into a crouch to be on her eye-level “You sure grew up pretty, didn’t you? How old are you now, Landi?”

“I’m five, sir. I’ll be six at Christmas.”

“Oh, I was close, wasn’t I?” He reached out and touched the girl’s hair, which she’d gotten from her father. Both of her parents were in the armed forces, her mother was Nursing Corps and her father flew helicopters for the Army Air Corps. Sam MacGuinness had flown the helicopter that airlifted John to Germany, his wife Victoria had kept him alive long enough to _get_ to Germany. And John, he’d delivered Maryland in a rather exciting home-birth guided by a 999 operator and an ambulance-team that was en-route almost exactly six years ago.

“Do you want a flower, Captain Watson?” She asked timidly.

“Is that what you’ve got in your basket there, Landi?”

“Yessir.”

“I’d love one. Can my friend have one, too?”

“Yeah.” Maryland set her basket down and retrieved two handcrafted paper flowers from it, giving one each to John and Greg, who took his with patient amusement. She insisted on pinning them to their clothes for them, and John helped her place the pin on his uniform on the lapel. Greg let her put his on, too, and then she led them back to where she was standing with her family. He recognized Victoria right away, looking quite handsome in her dress-uniform with a few of the many medals she had collected over her years of service. No sign of Sam, but Sam’s parents were there.

“John! Hi!” Victoria looked a little surprised to see them, “I was wondering where Landi went off to like that! How are you?”

“I’m alright, Rory. How’s Sam?”

“He’s good. Busy, of course. Sorry he couldn’t make it this year.”

“Where is he these days?”

“On exercise in the United States at the moment. Swears he’ll be home for Christmas.”

“Well, that’s safer than Afghanistan, isn’t it?” John smiled and gave Victoria a hug before shaking hands with her in-laws. Mallory McGuinness insisted on a hug, of course, giving John a bit of a scolding for not looking after himself these last few years. Greg snickered, loving the dynamic, John politely ignored him. The family’s dog, one of Nowzad Dogs’ rescues, came to say hello.

“Who’s this?”

“This is Winston. I brought him home two years ago on my last deployment.”

“Hello, Winston.” John gave Winston a friendly ear-ruffle. “You weren’t one of mine, obviously, I don’t remember you.”

“I brought Winston home in 2010, you left in 2009.”

“Ah, that explains it.” John smiled and they turned to pay attention as the ceremony began. When Pen gave a short address, John paid close attention. After the ceremony, he parted ways with the McGuinness family, promised to try and stay in better touch, stopped by to see Pen for a bit, and returned to Headquarters with Greg to write up his statement for the BDSM case.

 

They got back to find that Donovan and Rob Dimmock had questioned the suspect and gotten a confession. John had been right on nearly every count regarding the cause-of-death. It was accidental, a play-session got out of hand and in a panic, the suspect had called the police and told a bit of a lie. But he had confessed and it would go a judge for sentencing. A nice open-close case. John spent a few hours at Headquarters, helping Greg with paperwork, and was home by eleven after Greg took him to dinner. Irene was up in the master bedroom, reading before bed when he stopped in to let her know he was finally home.

“How was your afternoon? Did you solve the case?” She asked, looking up from her reading.

“It was an interesting open-close case, a couple in the BDSM community actually. Young, quite gay. The victim was bisexual, leaned more towards the homosexual label.”

“Accidental?”

“Very.” He sighed, “I felt a little sorry for the suspect, the boyfriend. He got a little carried away and things went rather badly.”

“Do you suppose he’ll serve any jail-time?”

“Dunno. Probably, he did kill a man, even if it was an accident. Maybe he’ll get lucky and the charges will get dropped. I would have to assume there was safe-word failure involved.”

“And inexperience, it sounds like.” Irene shook her head, setting her book down and giving him a look-over. “Did you make it to the ceremony as you wanted?”

“Yes, I did. I saw Pen and Hannah again, and I ran into a few of my service-mates. Greg was with me, which was nice of him.”

“I don’t suppose you had any trouble with Greg’s team, did you?”

“Just with Anderson, but we’ve never gotten along anyway and I know when to pick my fights.”

“Take that off and hang it up, I’ll send it for cleaning tomorrow.” Irene indicated his uniform, “Then finish up for the night and come here. You need to sleep.”

“Just sleep?” He had to ask, it was never the same on any given night.

“Just sleep. Unless you think you need more?”

“No, I think a dose of Sominex will do the trick.” He smiled and headed for the dressing room. Getting out of his uniform, he hung it up carefully, pulled on a pair of pyjama trousers, and went to brush his teeth. After taking a dose of Sominex, he went back out to the bedroom and got into bed. Like she had promised, Irene let him relax and he fell asleep in no time at all, curled around the warm body beside him. It was a fine end to a rather interesting day, really.

* * *

* * *


	12. Silver Linings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has settled into his place in Irene's life and home. The changes that have come around are good for John. Having direction and the kind of structure and discipline he needs and craves keep him from acting rashly. Things get...interesting when he gets a phone call. Irene goes with him when he takes on a personal mission. A VERY personal mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khushbakht's nickname has changed from Álainn to Brèagha, and Brèagha is the name John gives her when he takes ownership of her.  
> ::  
> Brèagha is Gaelic for "pretty", as is Álainn. I just liked Brèagha as a name for a dog better.

* * *

* * *

After moving into Irene Adler’s house in Belgravia, a spacious place on the corner of Eaton Square and South Eaton Place across from Eaton Square Gardens, the private green space which was only accessible to residents and key-holders, John settled into a routine. He worked whatever cases Greg brought him, solved cold-case files by the boxful; and helped Rosemary with the cooking, it was something he enjoyed doing and was good at and Rosemary was thrilled to have a willing student to pass her skills and recipes along to. John also started up his blog again, writing up cases that hadn’t made the first cut. It was just one more thing to keep him occupied. He also kept an eye on the list of rescues he’d started, tracking who was adopted and who wasn’t, staying in touch with Pen regarding the dogs in question.

 

This routine continued into the New Year, which John and Irene celebrated in high style with a holiday to Paris together. John also celebrated his birthday for the first time in years, Irene insisted he do something to mark the occasion. He was happy to mark the occasion with a glass of celebratory whiskey and call it fair, but Molly and Greg put their heads together, spiriting John away to celebrate properly at their favourite pub. Greg gave him a new conceal-carry holster for his side-arm, Molly found an old medical text from the 1880s that she had apparently come across at a Friends Of The Library book-swap and bought because it reminded her of John. Sentimental, useful gifts from a few of the only friends he had. It was a short reprieve before they closed out a rather exciting case that John got a bit of a scolding for and two hours on his knees when he returned to Eaton Square soaking wet from a quick swim in the Thames and sporting a few more bruises and injuries than he’d had when he left. Irene had him strip and shower and then tended to his hurts herself before ordering him to kneel for her and remain still and silent until she said so. And he did, without question. 

 

He tried harder to stay out of trouble after that. But running for The Met came with a few inherent risks, and there was no knowing what any given case would lead to. Irene’s only request was that John be exceptionally careful, she didn’t want him getting killed or seriously injured on the job. Greg gave him a police-issue armour-vest that he started wearing on nearly every case that took him into the field. It gave Irene some peace of mind knowing he wasn’t completely unprotected out there, and John wanted her to be happy. He had learned very early in their relationship that Irene's happiness was something he was more than willing to sacrifice for and if she asked him not to do a particular thing, he was far more likely to refrain from whatever it was on her behalf than on his own.

 

It was more or less quiet until a week before Christmas, his time dedicated to working both live cases and cold cases as they came and his off-hours spent with Irene, when John got an emergency phone-call from Pen Farthing, who had a big favour to ask of him and apologized six times before John just told him to shut up and get to the point.

 _“Stop apologizing and tell me what you need me to do, Pen.”_ He said calmly, continuing the work he was doing on some of the latest cases Greg had brought to him.

“Captain.” Irene’s voice held a warning and he looked up at her briefly. They were in Irene’s office doing paperwork together.

“What?”

“Mind your tone of voice.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He went back to work, his focus back on the phone call.

_“Having trouble with one of the dogs, Pen?”_

_“That’s one word for it. I have no idea what to do, Jack, you have to help me out!”_

_“What happened, exactly? Did an adoption fall through or something?”_

_“In the absolute worst way possible. The family that had arranged the adoption can’t take the dog on any longer, they’re moving to America with the husband’s job.”_

_“Why can’t they take the dog with them?”_

_“I asked them that, do you know what they told me?”_

_“Christ, I can only imagine.”_ He sighed and rubbed his forehead with two fingers, thinking not for the first time that there were just some people who should not have pets. Of any manner.

_“Did these people tell you that, after all of the time, effort, and money you have put into the arrangement, they didn’t have room for the dog in their new lives?”_

_“Exactly what they said. They’ll be in an apartment for a while until proper housing can be found, and they can’t be worried about finding room for six people and a dog that size in an apartment that may or may not have size-restrictions on pets.”_

_“Oh my god, Pen. I’m so sorry.”_ John pulled up his computer and went straight to the rescue’s website, arranging the windows to view both the pages of available dogs and the list he had been keeping, looking specifically at the dogs he had labelled as “Adopted”. _“Who got stranded? Are they state-side yet or on their way?”_

_“She’s here already, waiting in quarantine to be released.”_

_“Okay, that’s fine. Not that I have any problem with flying out to Kabul to meet the dog and bring her home.”_

_“You’re a bloody saint, Jack. Can you help me out?”_

_“Absolutely, Pen, glad to help.”_ John was looking through the listings, trying to deduce with next to no evidence or clues which dog needed rescuing. There were a few that stood out to him, and it wasn’t promising for any of them if they were his current damsel in distress.

 _“Thanks, Jack. You’re a life-saver.”_ The relief in Pen’s voice was audible and it was heartbreaking. _“I’ll send you everything we have on Khushbakht, she’s a good girl and doesn’t deserve any of this.”_

 _“She had no choice, Pen. None of them had a choice.”_ John said quietly. _“They were born in a country at war with itself and the Western World both separately and simultaneously, that is the only crime any of them are guilty of.”_

_“I’m so sorry to ask you a favour like this, Jack, so close to Christmas. But I didn’t know who else to turn to.”_

_“I’m glad you called me, Pen. You just send me everything you have on our stranded miss and I’ll make sure she has a place to call home.”_ John found the dog in question on his list and marked her properly before hanging up with Pen, who sent along everything they had on the dog in question in an email. He spent ten minutes reading over stats and looking at photographs and video of a beautiful former street-dog named Khushbahkt. As soon as he saw the first videos, taken at the Kabul shelter, John knew he had to bring her home. The first thing he did was call Pen back.

_“This is Farthing.”_

_“Pen, it’s me.”_

_“Jack, hey! Wasn’t expecting to hear back from you so soon!”_ Pen sounded eager to hear from him, _“What can I do for you, brother?”_

 _“So, I got the information on our girl.”_ He cleared his throat a little, _“Is there any chance I can visit her before she’s released from quarantine?”_

_“Did you want to see her before she gets to come home?”_

_“Yeah, just to...just to see if she remembers me at all. It’s been a long time.”_ He chewed on the end of his biro, distracted by a sharp sound that turned out to be Irene snapping her fingers at him. He quietly set the biro down without a word.

_“Sure! They have your name as one of my agents, so don’t worry about answering any uncomfortable questions. Just tell them you want to visit Khushbakht, and you’re there on behalf of Nowzad Dogs if they push the subject.”_

_“Thanks, mate. Thanks a million.”_ John isolated the pictures and video of Khushbakht after he hung up with Pen again and fired them off in an email to Irene as he decided he’d done enough damage for the moment and shut down a few browser windows.

“Where are you going?” Irene asked calmly.

“I sent you some photographs and video. You aren’t so busy you can’t get away for a few hours, are you?”

“Not so busy I can’t accompany you wherever it is you’re planning to go.” She had learned her lesson the hard way and looked at him. “Go get ready, I’ll meet you by the door.”

“Do you want me to rally up Kate?”

“If you would, dear?”

“Happy to.” John tried to smile, but couldn’t quite. Khushbakht wasn’t _his_ dog, exactly, but she had certainly been one of his favourite strays. If he thought about it, he was fairly certain she had been with him on that fateful patrol, he seemed to remember her accompanying his unit, faithfully keeping her post on John’s six, right off his heel and alert for anything they might encounter. He definitely remembered asking about her when he woke up in the hospital. But no one seemed to know what had become of her.

 

Fifteen minutes later, John met Irene by the door, her coat over one arm as he looked at another email Pen had sent his way. It was more photos and video of Khushbakht, but these weren’t anything a potential adopter would receive. These were old photos, old video from years ago. Pen had uncovered footage of Khushbakht playing with a couple of soldiers, well, it was more like she was playing with one soldier and others looked on. There was footage of her on patrols, photos of the same. John recognized the soldier she was with in every single frame for one very simple reason: He was Khushbakht’s soldier. It wasn’t that he’d _forgotten_ about her, because Christ knew he hadn’t, he just hadn’t had the time or the means to transport her from Afghanistan to England. Maybe he had the means through the NDHS Trust, but he was never in a stable enough position to take on responsibility for another living creature like that. But now, he could. And he was going to.

“Kate’s waiting for us, come along.” Irene took her coat from him and held the door until he was out of the house. “You’ve gone awfully quiet, what’s in your head?”

“Khushbakht.” He said quietly as he got into the car, “She hasn’t seen me in four years.”

“So you _do_ know this dog?”

“Yes.” He wondered if he should share some of the footage and pictures Pen had sent him. “I know this dog very well.”

“Show me, Captain.” Irene’s voice was stable and calm, and John obediently surrendered his phone, appreciating that she knew how to get him to obey with a few words. It was quiet while she went through the pictures, and he ran a timer in his head on a count-down to see how long it took her to recognize Khushbakht’s soldier.

“Captain Watson?”

“Yes, Miss Adler?” That was the thirty-second mark if he wasn’t mistaken.

“This is you. You are in every single one of these videos and photographs. You were her soldier, weren’t you?” She looked up at him, her eyes narrow, “You shared your meals with her, fed her when you yourself went hungry, gave her shelter when she would have had nowhere safe to sleep. She followed you everywhere, on-base and away from it, repaid your kindness with loyalty, affection, gave you something to take care of, to look forward to after a hard day when you were thousands of miles from home and lonely.”

“She was my dog, I was her soldier. We were almost inseparable.” John watched a video of him playing with Khushbakht at Camp Bastion. “When I got shot and discharged, I wasn’t even worried about myself, I was worried about Brèagha. She was...she was with me that day, see, and no one could tell me what had become of her after the ambush. I...” He trailed off, shaking his head. His nickname for Khushbakht had sort of slipped out unbidden. It didn’t seem Irene had noticed.

“You thought she might be dead?”

“I didn’t _know_. And even if I had, I was in no position to give her a home, I couldn’t care for her. I could barely take care of myself.”

“I’m so sorry, John. I hope this gives you something to look forward to.” Irene took his hand in hers.

“Does this count towards your pet-ownership clause?”

“Absolutely it does! And you did it all by yourself, you did the research, you did the work.”

“I didn’t expect to find a dog I already had a history with. A rescue I helped start. I thought it would take me a few months.”

“Not so much.” Irene squeezed his hand, sympathetic to the turmoil he must be experiencing. John sighed and rubbed one of the photographs he’d printed at the house with his thumb. He and Khushbakht were both much older now, had seen a lot more of the world’s ugly side than most people, but he was hoping she would remember him. He had looked up the kennel where Khushbakht was being boarded during her quarantine and found their visiting-hours: 2am-4pm. They had time to spend with Khushbakht, to get to know each other again. And he could always come back again for more visits after today’s meeting.

 

It was just noon, down to the exact minute, when they arrived at the kennel just a mile from Heathrow Airport’s Terminal 5, giving him almost four hours. Kate opened the door for them and John got out, clutching a picture of Khushbakht in one hand. He had a badge that identified him as a staffer for Nowzad Dogs if that came up at any time during their visit. He didn’t think it would, but he didn’t mind the extra bit of security he got having it with him.

“I’ll come back at four,” Kate said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. That wasn’t a suggestion, it was a demand. He had time, use it.

“Thanks, Kate.”

“Go on, Captain.” She pointed the way to the entrance to the building that housed the quarantine kennels, “I’ll come back for you in four hours.”

“Alright.” He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, putting the photo in his pocket. He was a soldier, for fuck’s sake, he had survived the hottest war-zone in the world, he could handle this. This was simple. As Kate got in the car and pulled away, disappearing in no time, John curled the fingers of one hand into a fist. A careful touch against his hand startled him and he looked over at Irene, who simply loosened his grip and laced her fingers with his.

“This is what I’m here for, Captain. You are not alone.”

“Thanks.” He whispered. God, how different would it have been if Irene had come with him back in November when he visited Saint Bart’s? Determined, he walked into the building with Irene at his side and approached the reception desk. A cheerful young man with dark, clear skin and short-cropped hair sat behind the desk with two other receptionists and beamed when he saw them coming.

“Hello, welcome to AirPets! How can I help you lovely folks this afternoon?”

“Um, I...” John trailed off, trying to figure out what to tell these people. Irene gave his arm a squeeze and turned her friendliest smile on the receptionists.

“We would like to visit one of the quarantined pets if that’s alright with you?”

“Absolutely! What’s the name?”

“The dog’s name is Khushbakht.”

“Oh, yes!”

“I’m with Nowzad Dogs. My name is John Watson.” John handed over the badge Pen had given him. “This is my partner, Irene Adler. Can we visit Khushbakht?”

“Oh, sure! She hasn’t had any visitors in the four months she’s been with us, actually, aside from your lot.” The young man was looking at something on his screen.

“Really?” John was kind of surprised to hear that. All three of the receptionists nodded.

“Aye, not a peep or sight of the people who adopted her.” The oldest of the receptionists, a portly grandmother-type from...Glasgow, if John had her accents right, shook her head sadly, “We’re not even sure who we were supposed to look for.”

“Oh.” John looked at Irene and felt a twinge of something uncomfortable in his chest. “Well, maybe we can keep her company for a few hours?”

“Absolutely! Thomas, you take them back there.” The Scotts receptionist, her name was Moira, gave the young man a stern look, one that John was familiar with from his own relatives. “God knows Brèaghacould use some good company!” The endearment caught his attention and as Thomas came around the desk to show them the way, he hesitated. Someone else called her that?

“Why do you call her Brèagha?” He asked curiously, careful to keep his tone neutral and unthreatening.

“Because she is beautiful. And every dog needs to be loved. She’s such a good girl, I hope you find her a home soon.” Moira looked at him closely. “I spend my breaks with her, talk to her, sing to her, she loves the sound of Gaelic. Calms her right down. I wonder if someone else in her life spoke it to her once.” John remained neutral, despite the ache in his chest. _He_ had spoken Gaelic to Khushbakht! All the time, she had learned commands in the language for God’s sake!

“When is she due out of quarantine?”

“Next week. It’d be a lovely Christmas gift for her to have a warm home to go to, poor dear’s suffered enough in that awful, violent place.”

“I think I might be able to help.” John took the photo from his pocket and decided to do something kind of risky. Without giving himself any time to doubt his motives, he passed the photograph to Moira. “I’m not certain the rescue told you this, but Khushbakht had a soldier in Afghanistan. Might’ve saved his life, in fact.”

“Oh, she did?”

“Followed him _everywhere_ for four years.” John smiled sadly, “That’s a picture of them. You can keep that, I know how to get a duplicate.” By the time Moira realized John was the soldier in the photograph, he was out of sight. As they followed Thomas, Irene put her hand on his arm.

“John, why did you act like that just now?”

“Because I thought I was the only one who called Khushbakht Brèagha.”

“And you were surprised to hear someone else call her that.”

“Yeah.” He looked at her, “Was that...bad of me?”

“No, dear! No, it’s fine, no one else saw what I saw.” Irene squeezed gently, “I promise, it’s fine.” Thomas was chattering away the whole time, more or less ignorant of their private conversation, talking non-stop about the dogs waiting in Quarantine Kennels, about Khushbakht and how she seemed so...withdrawn. When they got to the kennel, he opened the door for them, calling out to Khushbakht as he did so.

“Go on in, stay as long as you like. Visiting hours are closed at four.”

“Thank you, Thomas.” John smiled at the man and waited until he was gone to enter the kennel. Irene followed him in and made sure to close the gate to make sure there would be no escapes. John looked around the kennel-space for any sign of the resident and saw her perched on the sleeping shelf. She wasn’t asleep, but the presence of people in her kennel excited no response from her at all. She looked at them and then looked away.

“Oh, John.”

“What happened to her?” He felt sick, “How long has she been here?”

“What’s the standard for a dog coming into the country from an unlisted country?”

“Four months? This isn’t just an adoption falling through, this is...this is worse. Someone else fronted funds to bring her home, but they didn’t make it back themselves. Pen lined up families interested in adoption, found one, and hoped he had someone to take her home. That fell through and he... Oh god.”

“Breathe, John.” Irene put her hand between his shoulders, “Pen called _you_ because he knew you would do whatever you had to. Do you think he remembered?”

“Absolutely.” John took a few steps forward before his knee buckled. Irene and the cane in his right hand caught him, he still used it for security when he felt the need. It was nice to have it with him. As he landed on his knees, the cane clattered to the floor.

“John, stay with me, Captain. Stay with me. It’s fine, it’s alright.” Irene’s fingers stroked through his hair and tightened, grounding him to the present with physical sensation. All of a sudden, like a switch had been flipped, there was a commotion on the sleeping shelf. Before John could lose himself in grief, he had his arms full of something warm, living, and furry. It was Khushbakht. She had done this in Afghanistan after rough patrols, or when John lost a patient either afield or in the hospital tents. She would come to him and insert herself into his space, giving him something to hold onto, a safe place to shed his tears. As she licked the dampness from his cheeks, he dug his fingers into her fur and held on for dear life.

“Oh my God. Oh, Brèagha! You beautiful thing, you wonderous animal. Hello, my darling!”

“I’m going to find someone, stay here.” Irene gave a final tug and let him go, leaving the kennel. John was hardly aware of her departure, his whole focus was on the dog in his arms. Khushbakht whined and butted against him, desperate to calm him down. He decided right then that he would change her name to Brèagha, it was all he’d ever really called her. Five minutes later, Irene returned with a staffer bearing a harness and lead. John dried his face on his sleeve and took the items, putting them on Khushbakht himself. The staffer showed them the way to an outdoor enclosure and left them alone.

“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.” She said quietly before leaving them to their reunion. John quickly let Khushbakht off the lead and gave Irene the lead and his cane. 

“John, what are you doing?”

“Just...hold onto that for me?” He looked over his shoulder at Irene as he gave Khushbakht a hand-signal and she dropped into a sit.

::“Hold steady.”:: He commanded in Gaelic. His former companion animal dropped to her belly and waited for the word. Holding one hand in a neutral position, he counted in his head to thirty before giving the order.

::“Go!”:: And off she went, covering the distance at an incredible speed, keeping low to the ground. There were some agility obstacles in the paddock, probably kept for exercise purposes for the dogs, and John smiled. Breaking into a jog, he headed for the agility course. A sharp whistle brought Khushbakht straight to heel and when they got to the first obstacle, all he had to do was point the way. She figured out the rest on her own.

For all that it had been four years, her recall was spot-on and her drive was low. It wasn’t long before John and Khushbakht were lapping the agility course, getting creative on certain obstacles. He would be sore tonight, but it was worth the agony. By the time he called a stop, it looked like every staffer in the place had come out to watch. John looked down at Khushbakht, who stood by him, waiting for his next command. Her ears were up and her tail was wagging.

“Good girl, Brèagha. I’m just sorry I can’t take you home with me right now.” She tilted her head, and John felt an ache in his chest that wasn’t just the exertion. He had said the exact same thing to her before the ambush that saw him shot and discharged. He sighed and reached down, stroking her head.

“But I can bring you home in a week, okay? Just one more week, I promise. Then you don’t have to worry about a warm place to sleep ever again. You’ll have a nice house and I’m sure dogs are welcome in Eaton Square Gardens. If not, I’ll find you a place to run around.” Together, they walked back to the kennel building housing the animals in quarantine with Khushbakht trotting along at John’s heel, just to his left and a bit behind, just as she had all those years ago in a very different part of the world. When they got back to the building, he reattached her lead, taking it from Irene. Going back into her enclosure, he removed the harness and lead and gave her a hug.

“One more week, Brèagha, I promise. That’s all. It’s going to be an eternity for both of us, but what a fine Christmas.” She looked at him curiously and gave him a parting face-shot lick after he kissed her on the muzzle.

“Pthf! Brèagha, no!” He sputtered, “Ugh! Oh, I never did manage to break you of that habit, did I? Terrible manners for a lady! You’re worse than Nowzad!” All she did was sit there at his feet and wag her tail. Giving her final, parting ear-ruffle, John stepped out of the kennel and made sure the door was secure. Irene handed over his cane.

“Are you alright, John?”

“I’m alright.” He smiled and rubbed at his cheek, “She always used to do that to me when she was excited about something.”

“She’s a wonderful dog. She recognized you right away.”

“Which I didn’t think she would.” He ruffled his hair, “Well, I’m not going to complain.”

“Doctor Watson, you’re the soldier in that picture you gave us, aren’t you?” Moira asked as she walked them back to the front of the building. “That _is_ you?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s me. I was out on patrol one afternoon and saw a few locals ganged up on something, a couple of rowdy kids who should know better, and scared ‘em off to find they’d been beating up on this poor dog. She showed her teeth and ran off on me, of course, and thought that was the last I’d seen of her.”

“But it wasn’t, was it?”

“No, ma’am. I found her sleeping outside my tent two days later, and she stuck around for another four years until I discharged out in 2008.” John looked over his shoulder, “I’ll be damned if that dog didn’t save my life that day. I know she was with us on that patrol, I remember seeing her, and I seem to remember seeing her run at someone. I didn’t see what happened after that, and by the time I regained any awareness, no one knew what had become of her.”

“But here she is?”

“Here she is. Just...can you hold onto her until she’s ready to go home at Christmas?”

“Absolutely! We’ll make sure she’s all dandied up, give her a good scrubbing, trim her nails.” Moira smiled and held the door for them as they walked out to the waiting car. She stopped John long enough to give him a hug.

“You take good care of yourself now, John Watson, hear?”

“I’ll try, but I think having Brèagha around will help keep me on track.”

“Good luck, son. Send pictures when you get that rascal home properly, will you? Let us know how she’s settling in?”

“Absolutely. Thank you for taking care of her for so long, Moira.”

“I’m just glad she has someone to love her properly. She deserves it, and I think you deserve each other, she doesn’t act like that for anyone here.”

“Well, she doesn’t seem to mind you much, so just keep her company for me and keep telling her it’s just one more week.” John looked at the facade of the building. It was going to be a _very_ long week. Thanking Moira for the work the company did, he followed Irene into the car. It was time to go home and unwind.

 

The drive home from AirPets to Belgravia was quiet, John was not ashamed to cry. Once home, he followed Irene into the house and went upstairs. She didn’t have to tell him what to do, he set his clothes aside in automatic motions and folded them neatly before dropping to his knees on the cushion by the chaise, hands folded behind his back, head down.

“What do you want from me, Captain?” Irene asked quietly as she came in, locking the door behind her.

“I want...I want my mind to quiet. You can do that for me, Miss Adler, you’re very good at it. Please? I need...I need to be distracted.” He raised his head at the gentle tug on his hair. Irene smiled and stroked her fingers through his hair, her hand trailed down from temple to jawline, and she rubbed the dampness on his face.

“Number?”

“Just...just 2, Miss Adler. All I need is a distraction, I don’t require pain today.”

“You’re going to be in enough of that from all the running about you did, no need to make you suffer more.” Irene leaned down and kissed him on the forehead, “Let me take care of you, Captain. I can quiet your mind, I think I know just what to do. Up on your feet.” Stepping back, she held out one hand to him. John got up with her assistance and she led the way to the en-suite, where she ordered him to stand wait while she drew a bath. First things first, a bit of relaxing and pampering. When it was ready, Irene helped him into the tub and sat behind him. Half an hour was devoted to bathing, and John let her have her way with him, she wouldn’t let him return in kind this time. Later, but not right now.

 

When the water cooled beyond use, they drained the tub, rinsed off, and got out. Irene dried them both off with warm fluffy towels, taking care with John’s hair. Once they were both dry, she gave him a dose of Nurofen and led him back to the bedroom.

“Stop here.” She guided him to a halt by the chaise and turned them so that all she had to do was give a gentle shove and he could sit down. He thought he might know what it was she had in mind to quiet his riotous thoughts. He wasn’t going to stop her, either. The bath had helped him relax a great deal. To keep him still, she applied wrist-to-thigh and ankle restraints and knelt between his spread legs, fitting there quite nicely.

“I want you to pay very close attention to what I do and how I do it.” She said calmly, making eye-contact. John just nodded.

“Do you understand, Captain?”

“Yes, Miss Adler. I understand.” He said softly. It was the same thing she had said when she decided to reward him back in November, what she said every time she did this. John let out a soft sound at the first contact and closed his eyes. A soft tap reminded him and he looked down again. There was just something about the sight of lips painted the colour of blood closing around his cock that was...electrifying. Liberating. He was fairly certain she didn’t do this for anyone else, or take such care if she did. She was _very_ good at this, very good to him. By the time she pulled him over the edge of climax several blissful minutes later, he was shaking and the restraints creaked in protest as he strained against them.

“Oh, Christ, Irene. Christ.” He breathed, warning her. She pulled off to look up at him, keeping one hand wrapped around the base, squeezing and stroking in a steady rhythm.

“Come for me, Captain. Let me take care of you.” She said softly, leaning forward to kiss the flushed, swollen head. John couldn’t help groaning as she went down on him to finish him off properly, the sensations were deliciously overwhelming. This was what he got for asking her to quiet his mind, and it worked every time. When she had wrung him dry, her hands wrapped around his wrists to give him an additional grounding, she gently pulled away, licking him clean with care as she went. Releasing him from the restraints, she set them aside and got to her feet, disappearing into the en-suite for a moment before returning with a damp flannel and the scent of toothpaste and mouthwash on her breath. She also had a pair of pyjama trousers for him and a tee-shirt.

“Come to bed, Captain.” Irene offered him one hand. “Rest.”

“Stay with me?” He took her hand and followed her to the bed. The nights he slept by himself were standard for a fledgeling relationship, but he enjoyed the chance to share Irene’s bed whenever it was offered. As they lay together under the covers, just enjoying the closeness and intimacy of being together, Irene stroked John’s hair carefully.

“How’s your head?”

“Quiet.” He nuzzled under her touch, “Thank you, Miss Adler.”

“You asked me for help. Thank you for trusting me.”

“I’m...I’m glad you came with me, Miss Adler.” John sighed, wondering how different things might have been if Irene had stayed behind. It might have been a repeat of what had happened at Saint Bart’s last month. Just without John blind-texting Greg with a suicide note.

“Sleep now, John.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He relaxed under her hand and let himself drift off. It had been an interesting day, a little stressful, but he was content.

 

That night, John took Irene out to dinner at Angelo’s and they toasted their future. It was another Christmas without Sherlock, but John wasn’t celebrating alone this year. It was going to be a long week, but he wouldn’t be lonely. And he had something to look forward to for Christmas, something very special.

* * *

* * *

 


	13. Elements of Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve in London. John is keeping himself rather busy. A case that's kept him occupied for much of the week leading takes an unexpected and violent turn. Business as usual? One bright spot is John's reunion with his Afghan companion animal, whom he decides to bring with him on the case. In the aftermath, John encounters an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expanded a bit on Mary's part in this chapter, explaining a bit of the hostility she shows John at the Compton Road scene. I did it for story's sake, but also for The_Consulting_Storyteller who wanted to know more about Mary's story. I hope you like this, my dear!

* * *

* * *

The week leading up to Christmas was busy for John, he worked a full roster of cases with The Met including a rather involved kidnapping case that had him occupied the whole week with no end in sight. And then, to top things off, his girlfriend decided to break up with him right in the middle of everything. He’d expected it, but still, it was the principle. She knew he was busy, and yet when she texted him to come to her place and have coffee, he made time for her. Her true motives were quickly revealed, and he had to admit he should have seen this coming, should have anticipated it. It didn’t make it any easier, though.

“I’m sorry, John. I just can’t do this anymore. I can’t compete with a ghost. I deserve better.” She didn’t look sorry at all as she sat on the other side of the kitchen table in her flat.

“Mary, don’t … do this. Please? Right now?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t take it anymore. You don’t see me, do you? You never did. You see him. You call his name in your sleep, during sex.” Mary folded her arms across her chest, threatening and challenging and demanding answers to questions she had no right to ask. “What was so special about him? He treated you like shite and you worshipped the ground he walked on.”

“He was my best friend.” More than that, but that was none of her business. John had adored Sherlock Holmes, loved him, cared for him, followed wherever he led, and mourned when he died. Or ... well ... had he? Had he really? It was something that had bothered John for years.

 

Getting together with Mary Morstan, his current girlfriend, had been the result of a blind date a colleague had set him up on, convinced they would get along just dandy. Irene had given her blessing, of course, but John knew she hadn’t been entirely thrilled about it. He was just hoping for someone who didn’t mind his past, current lifestyle choices, or the reputation behind his name. But it hadn’t been like that at all. She had wanted to change him, had tried to replace Sherlock, had tried to fill a hole in his life that wasn’t empty anymore. Replacing Sherlock was bad enough, but then she started trying to replace Irene, and John started looking for a quiet way out.

 

“Well?” Her voice cracked across his awareness and he realized she had continued ranting at him, berating him, and he had completely zoned her out. He should have felt bad about that, but he didn’t.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” He looked up to meet her gaze and remained calm.

“Have you even been listening to me?”

“No.”

“Ugh. Typical! Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What do you have to say for yourself?” She was seething. John narrowed his eyes and sat up straight.

“I think we’re done here, Ms Morstan.”

“Excuse me?” her eyebrows shot to her hairline.

“We’re done.” He got to his feet and took something from his pocket. “Here’s my key.”

“I wish I knew how to make you happy, John.”

“You tried something foolish, Mary. Dead or alive, Sherlock Holmes can’t be replaced. It was noble to try and give me something else to think about, though.”

“Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

“I think I can handle myself.”

“Well, just take care of yourself, and never be too careful.”

“Don’t worry about me, Mary. I’ll be just fine. I’m sorry, too, though.”

“Why?”

“For failing us. For … not giving up on a dead man.”

“Well, I can’t have everything. I did try, but you’re too nice.”

“Too nice?”

“Nicest man I ever met.”

“To be fair, you had some living competition, too.” He mused. “Goodbye, Mary.”

“Goodbye, John Watson.” She murmured as he picked up his coat and let himself out, making sure to close the door behind him. Once on the street, he took a minute to catch his breath. Without thinking, he reached into his pocket for his phone, kept on him at all times. With his back to the house behind him, he composed a quick text to Irene.

    

**Hello, sweetheart. I hope your day is going better than mine is. I need you, I miss the sound of your voice so much right now. I miss waking up with you. – JWA**

 

As he held his thumb over the Send button, a call came in. It was Greg. John sighed and took the call.

_“Hey, Greg.”_

_“John, hey. Got another lead. Are you busy?”_

_“Nope. Want me to meet you at Headquarters?”_ He already had his hand out for a taxi, hoping to Christ one would stop this time.

_“Yeah, if you don’t mind. I feel bad for monopolizing your time like this, but ... ”_

_“It’s fine, Greg. Irene understands.”_ Irene understood, even if Mary hadn’t. Well, he would deal with that unpleasantness later. John was relieved when a black taxi slid out of traffic and stopped for him. Pulling open the door of the cab, he got inside and closed the door on the outside world.

_“I’ll be there in twenty minutes, Greg.”_

_“See you then, John. Thanks for this.”_

_“Happy to help.”_ He hung up with Greg and looked up briefly at the cabbie.

“Where to, sir?”

“Uh, 8 Broadway Street, please. Direct route. Ta.” Before he lost his nerve, he fired off that text and leaned back.

“On the clock, are you?” The cabbie asked as they got underway.

“Yeah, yeah I am.” He nodded, letting out a slow, shaky breath. It felt like a weight lifted from his shoulders, but he couldn’t take any relief in breaking up with Mary. There was too much happening right now for him to completely relax. The cabbie kept up neutral conversation, John gave appropriate answers as required, and tipped him when they got to The Met. 

***

After ending his relationship with Mary, the only other time John got a reprieve was when Pen called to ask when he could come by with Khushbakht (whom John had already filed change-of-name papers for to register her under the name Brèagha), she was ready to go home.

 

He was on a stake-out with Greg when his phone rang. It actually woke him up, he’d fallen asleep in the back of the ambulance they were using as part of the op while waiting for updates. It was probably the weirdest undercover job John had ever pulled, but it was work he enjoyed doing.

“I think that’s you, Watson,” Greg called from the cab where he was keeping an eye on things.

“Ugh. Yeah, got it.” He groaned and reached for his phone, swiping into the call before it rang to voicemail.

_“Watson.”_

_“Jack, hey, it’s Pen.”_

_“Jesus. Pen, hey, what’s on?”_ He sighed and shoved into an upright position, _“Sorry, you caught me napping.”_

_“Sleeping on the job again?”_

_“Eh.”_ He shrugged, not about to deny it. “What can I do you for, son?”

_“Your girl’s ready to come home, they’ve cleared her from quarantine. I was just calling to see when I could bring her by your place. Or can I meet you somewhere?”_

_“I’m not home right now. I’m … uh, y’know, I’m not actually sure where we are. Hang on a mo.”_ He looked over his shoulder.

“Hey, Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“Where are we?”

“Islington. Compton Road, if you need specifics. Why?”

“Have we had any movement?”

“In the last hour? No.”

“Okay.” He nodded and turned back to the phone call.

_“Hey, Pen, sorry about that. I’m on Compton Road right now.”_

_“Stakeout?”_ Pen’s voice was tinged with laughter.  _“Did I catch you on the job somewhere?”_

 _“Yeah, you kind of did.”_ He yawned, ruffling his hair, _“This case has kept us busy for a long while.”_ John rubbed his jaw and made a face at the prickle of a three-day beard. God he hadn’t been home in what felt like forever. He was essentially undercover for this job and had been sleeping over at Greg’s place, but texted and called Irene every chance he got.

_“You’ll find the girl, Jack, if anyone in this city can find a missing child after two weeks.”_

_“That’s an awful lot of faith you have in police procedure.”_

_“Not in police procedure, Jack-o, you.”_ Pen sounded smug, _“You always were the bloodhound, Watson, that hasn’t changed. I’ll come find you, bring you some company.”_

_“Thanks, Pen. I’ll let you know if we move while you’re en route.”_

_“Roger that, Captain. See you in an hour and a half?”_

_“Uh, yeah, sounds about right. We’re across from 13 Compton Road, just look for the ambulance.”_

_“Of course you’re in a bloody ambulance. I’ll see you soon, mate. Stay sane.”_

_“Sanity went out the window somewhere around the thirty-six-hour mark, Pen.”_ He muttered as he hopped out of the back of the ambulance and closed the doors, checking traffic before going around to the cab, _“I’m running on bad coffee, adrenaline, desperation, and I’m pretty sure I got nicotine poisoning.”_

_“Go home to your woman after this, she’ll take good care of you. Always does.” Pen was smiling now, John could hear it. “See you soon.”_

_“Yep. Thanks, Pen.”_ John said, ending the call and pocketing his phone as he opened the door of the cab and climbed in. Greg handed over a bottle of water without looking at him, he fought the lid for a minute before Greg took it back and twisted the lid lose with a quick jerk.

“Ta.”

“Who was that?”

“Pen.” He took half the water in two gulps, “Asked if I was busy.”

“And you told him?”

“Sitting a stakeout,” John said hoarsely.

“He’s good people, I like him.” Greg smiled and took the bottle when John handed it over. “Useful.” John chuckled, knowing what Greg was talking about. Irene had proven herself very useful for sexual crimes and Pen was a good go-to for crimes against animals and veterans.

 

They sat on location for fifteen minutes until another team came to relieve them and Greg suggested getting something to eat. John said sure, he was pretty hungry and they had already been on duty for twelve hours. So, handing over to their relief, they went in search of food.

“Want us to bring anything back for you?” John asked out of instinct. If he and Greg were hungry, the rest of the team would be. They were being relieved by Donovan and Dimmock, and Donovan’s expression was ... wistful.

“What were you thinking?”

“Probably something quick, maybe a takeaway from somewhere around here. We can pick up for you two if you want.” John shrugged, full willing to pay for Donovan’s lunch. In the year he’d been back in London and living with Irene, he and Donovan had become friends. They had initially bonded over their status as submissives and continued to find things in common. John had even taken Donovan on a few dates, all with Irene’s blessing of course, and had run off a few shady characters who thought they had a chance dating the intelligent DS. She still thought Sherlock was too smart for his own good and too proud for the same, but she and John got along fine and that’s all that really mattered. It made things much easier to be on good standing with the important people on Greg’s team when he showed up on a crime scene.

“You know what sounds good right now?” Dimmock piped in, “Bahn Mi.”

“Isn’t there a Vietnamese place around here somewhere?”

“Several.” Greg leaned against the back of the ambulance.

“Viêt London’s about fifteen minutes from here.” John smiled, “I know the owners pretty well, I bet we could get a few sandwiches to go.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Nah. Not for a pair of hungry detectives who haven’t eaten in a week.” He shrugged and got into the cab, “We’ll be back in a few. I’ve got a friend meeting me here, just let him stick around if he gets in before we do.”

“Which friend of yours?” Donovan raised an eyebrow.

“You know Paul Farthing?”

“Oh! Your Marine buddy, the one who runs that rescue and charity in Devon, right?”

“Yeah. He’s coming by, I asked him to meet me out in the field since I wasn’t home and I’m not sure when I will be at this rate.” John looked up at the sky, “Hell of a Christmas this turned out to be, huh?”

“I’ve seen worse.” Greg patted him on the shoulder, “Come on, let’s go get some food for the team. We’ll be back, Donovan, hold the fort for us while we’re gone.”

“Roger that, sir!” Donovan tossed off a cockeyed salute and they abandoned their post. The drive from their post on Compton Road to the restaurant down on King’s Cross Road was quiet, and John felt a bubble of something in his chest that had nothing to do with his over-exertion. It took him half the drive to realize it was excitement. And a touch of fear.

 

When they got to Viêt London, Greg parked across the street from the restaurant and John hopped out, gauging traffic before darting across the street. He was in just in time for the lunch rush, but getting service wouldn’t be a big problem. Winding his way to the counter, he waved to Lưu Thuận Hải’s granddaughter Văn Thiện Trinh, who smiled when she recognized him.

“Happy Christmas, Doctor Watson!”

“Happy Christmas, Trinh!” He called as he finally reached the counter, turning to give the owner his full attention. “Afternoon, Hải.”

“Well, where have  _you_ been, Doctor Watson! It’s been six months!” The old man scolded as John picked up a menu despite knowing exactly what he wanted. “What can I get for you today?”

“Uh. Can I get four chargrilled beef Banh Mi and two orders of crispy spring rolls, please?”

“To go?”

“Yes, please. That would be fantastic.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Oh, Christ knows we don’t need any more caffeine.” John stifled a yawn, “But can I get four Vietnamese coffees with extra condensed milk? Oh, and an order of Vietnamese doughnuts.” It was a lot of food for just four people, but none of them had eaten well lately, if they’d eaten at all, and Viêt London had very good food.

“Absolutely! Anything for my friend Watson!” Hải just beamed at him and entered the order into the system.

“Do I owe you anything, Hải?”

“Nothing! On the house, just for you! A tip, if you insist.”

“I knew you were going to say that, stubborn old man.” John chuckled and dug a couple of pound notes out of his wallet, handing them to Hải, who just tutted and put them in the till. John sat at the bar to wait for their order, checking his phone and radio at the same time. Nothing new. That was probably a good thing. Trinh came over with a cup of hot ginger tea with honey, on the house she said. John just smiled and kissed her on the cheek for being so nice to him.

 

Ten minutes later, Hải’s wife Xuân came out with two plastic shop-bags.

“What is all of this, Xuân?” John took the hot bags curiously.

“Four Bahn Mi Bo, two order of Cha Gio, two order of Bahn Cam, four Vietnamese coffee with extra condensed milk, and four Jasmine tea a little sweet! You too skinny again!” She said firmly, giving his midsection a judgmental poke. John didn’t have the heart to tell her she had practically doubled his entire order minus the sandwiches, and simply gave her a kiss on the cheek as he fished another couple of notes out of his wallet and put it in the pocket of her apron knowing she would never accept it otherwise.

“Thank you, Xuân. You’re wonderful. I’ll try to come back sooner than another six months.”

“You do that! We miss you!”

“I promise it’s mutual, Xuân. I’d better get this to the rest of the team, but I’ll definitely see you later, okay?”

“Bye-bye, Watson!” She chirped, hustling him to the door and letting him out, waving as he once again crossed against traffic. She stayed there until she saw him get into the ambulance, only going back into the restaurant once she was sure he had made it back.

“Oh my God, what  _is_ all of that?” Greg stared at the bags, caught between awe and alarm. John retrieved two of the teas and gave one to Greg.

“Xuân and Hải think we’re not taking care of ourselves properly.”

“Again? Don’t tell me they told you this was all “on the house”?”

“I tipped them nicely.”

“Jesus Christ, Watson.” Greg rolled his eyes and took a sip of tea, “God, that’s good stuff.”

“Come on, let’s get back to our post. Anything new come in while I was in there?”

“Nope. If we don’t see movement in the next twenty minutes, we have the warrants and a team from 19 on standby to make entry.”

“Oh, that’s just great.” John sighed. “Do you think anyone would mind if I brought Brèagha along on a case in the future?”

“I don’t have a problem with it, but can I ask why you’d  _want_ to bring her?”

“She used to follow us everywhere and she knows how to make entry to a house. She has a phenomenal nose and she can hit on anything from body decomp to explosives. I had one of my guys give her some training in Afghanistan when she took an interest in what the working dogs were up to.”

“Huh.” Greg seemed impressed by that, “Have you considered getting her certified so you _can_ bring her on cases?”

“I have, but I haven’t quite made up my mind on it yet.”

“Think about it. I’m not asking you to go for a badge or anything, but if you get the proper training and certification, you should be able to bring her along on cases.”

“Okay, maybe once things calm down a bit and she’s had time to adjust to life in a big city like London.”

“It’d sure give you something else to do with your time.” Greg smiled slyly as he took a sip of his tea. “And you wouldn’t have to worry about leaving her alone all day.”

“She wouldn’t be alone, though. If Irene’s not in, Rosemary certainly is, and she doesn’t mind dogs at all.”

“Has Rosemary met Brèagha?”

“Yes, she has. You’ve met her, haven’t you?”

“Nope, been too busy.”

“Oh, thought I took you out there once.”

“Trust me, I’d remember meeting your dog.” Greg shrugged, “But I know Molly has, she talked about it for three days.”

“And Mycroft’s met her, too.”

“Good move,” Greg said as they followed traffic. John remembered how there had been a bit of a stand-off between Mycroft Holmes and Brèagha, who hadn't been too sure of the well-dressed stranger John had brought to visit, but it had ended peacefully and Mycroft had won Brèagha over with patience, soft-spoken words, and a few treats. Pepperoni slices, if he remembered correctly, which had worked like magic to win the wary dog's affections.

 

When they got back to their post, Greg manoeuvred the ambulance into position and set the gears to Park. The e-brake was pulled and the keys taken from the ignition. John gave him one of the drink carriers and took the rest. They opened the back of the ambulance as Dimmock and Donovan emerged from their car in search of food. They used the work-station to lay everything out and sat wherever they found room. John sat on the steps, Greg sat at the work-station, Dimmock sat on the gurney, and Donovan decided to sit next to John. It was quiet while they ate, but it was a comfortable, friendly quiet. When Donovan leaned her head against John’s shoulder, that just showed how absolutely exhausted she was.

“Captain?” Her voice was soft as they nursed their coffees. John raised an eyebrow hearing his rank.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Do you think ... Miss Adler would have time to see me after we get this mess cleared up?”

“She will  _make_ time for you, Sergeant. All you have to do is ask her for it.” John smiled a bit. “Do you want me to put in a word for you?”

“Would you mind? I don’t think I’ll remember to do it. At this point, I can barely remember the last time I slept in my own bed.”

“No problem. I’d be happy to get you on her schedule.” John knew it would as simple as telling Irene that Donovan needed a session or two to unwind properly from the stresses of this last case, and letting her do the rest.

 

By the time they had finished eating and were feeling quite a bit more refreshed, the exercise had moved to the next stage and there were several more cars on the street than there had been before. John and Greg had changed clothes and wore black fatigues and body-armour with proper divisional patches. Better to blend with other Met personnel for safety’s sake than stand out in another uniform or street clothes. As Greg was debriefing the SCO19 team, John spotted Pen’s Rover coming their way. He stopped well clear of the police vehicles,  of course, and John looked at his watch.

“An hour and thirty on the nose. Damn.”

“Who’s that, Watson?” Dimmock asked quietly.

“Farthing. Gimme a mo, I’ll be right back.”

“Sure.” Dimmock just shrugged. Donovan tagged along and they met Pen by the front bumper of his car.

“Thanks for making the drive up here, Pen. You know Sally Donovan, yeah?”

“Yes, I do.” Pen gave Sally a friendly nod. “Pleasure to see you again, Sergeant Donovan.”

“Likewise, Sergeant Farthing.” Sally shook hands with Pen. “Heard you’ve got a special delivery for Watson?”

“I certainly do, a rather special one. You’ve met ‘er, haven’t you?”

“Twice, at least.”

“Come on back, then.” Pen led them to the boot. Opening the hatch, he let Brèagha out of the cargo area. She had a new lead and harness on, and a new collar. The staff at AirPets had taken good care of her, she was properly groomed for going home. Brèagha recognized John right away, of course, and just about jumped into his arms in her excitement.

“Hello, my girl!” John hugged her as her paws landed on his shoulders and ruffled her fur. “Hello, you beauty.”

“So, what’s all this for, then?” Pen asked, gesturing at the small fleet of vehicles, the uniformed personnel, and the police-barriers and ribbons of tape put up to keep curious bystanders at bay.

“No contact from the suspect or victim in the last twenty minutes, we’re making entry.” John looked over his shoulder, “Just like the old days in Afghanistan.”

“Oh, of  _course_ you’re on the hook for first entry. Just can’t help yourself, can you?” Pen rolled his eyes and tugged on the sleeve of John’s jacket. “Boy, you sure dressed the part properly, yeah? Lookin’ sharp, Jack-o.”

“Ta.” John just grinned, shrugging. Yeah, so what if he was relapsing to old habits? 

“Well, I’ll let you lovely folks get back to work. Give the family what closure you can offer. I’ll catch you later, Jack. Drinks some night? My treat?”

“After things calm down again, any time. You should join us for a Pub Night, you might enjoy it.” John pushed Brèagha onto all fours, offering one hand to Pen.

“Happy to. Good luck.” Pen smiled as they shook hands and got back into his car while John and Donovan headed back towards the rest of the group. Greg was giving the team from 19 their last orders and he nodded when he saw John coming back with Donovan and Brèagha on her lead.

“Alright, this is how it’s going to work, folks. Sergeant Nichols and his team will make first entry to the flat after standard contact protocols have been followed. If there is no response or a refusal to comply by anyone inside the flat, Nichols will have his men move in.” Greg looked right at them, “Doctor Watson will be on the team as part of the first-entry attempt, he’ll take his orders from Nichols. Are there any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Right, then. To your stations.” Greg nodded and dismissed the team to move in. John handed Bréagha’s lead to Greg, she wasn’t coming with him on this attempt. She realized this and showed her displeasure by grabbing a fold of his trousers between her teeth and pulling.

“I’m sorry, girl. You can’t come with me right now.” John reached down and ruffled her fur with one gloved hand, stroking her ears. “Maybe next time, okay?”  She just wined and lifted herself off her front paws, catching his glove in her teeth and yanking it off.

“Oi, that’s not on, you scamp! I need that glove, give it here!” 

“Well, that’s just pitiful manners, ain’t it?” Donovan chuckled as John scolded Bréagha. “I don’t think she wants you to do this, Watson.”

“She used to do that in Afghanistan, too.” He retrieved his glove and put it back on. “Thought it was a bit of a game, liked hiding my gear.”

“You must have learned to keep extras for the things she made off with.” Greg gave Bréagha a mollifying pat on the head as she retreated to his side at a signal from John. “Don’t you worry about your girl, I’ll keep an eye on her for you.”

“Thanks, Greg. Here’s to hoping.” John sighed and moved on to join the rest of the team, it was time to get to work.

 

There was a K9 team from DSU on hand, but they weren’t involved in the first-entry attempt he was on. John exchanged a nod with the handler, he’d worked with them on other cases.

“Good luck, Watson, I think you’re going to need it.” The handler muttered as they shook hands in passing.

“Better me than you, Richardson.” John looked at the target house. “I’m a bit more expendable than you.”

“You are not. Be careful in there, Watson.”

“Thanks, mate,” John said as he took a few moments to put himself in the proper mindset. This exercise required a certain mentality, a specific state of mind. He took position behind Danny Nichols and waited for the signal. John appreciated the willingness of Nichols’ team to put up with him, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get away with this anywhere else. Using a baton, Nichols banged on the door.

“Rosamund Vincent, Met Police!” Nichols bellowed, “Come to the door, please!” There was a pause, the demand was repeated, and when there was no further response, the ram was waved to the front. John was listening closely, standing this close to the door he could hear quite well. As they squared up to the door with the battering-ram, he thought he heard something very faint, very quiet, from inside the flat. With two blows of the battering-ram, they took the door down.

 

John was first into the place with a couple of Nichols’ people behind, his weapon brought to bear.

“Met Police! Come out with your hands up!” He yelled. The place was full of officers in no time, and they scoured each room, every corner, every nook, every potential hiding-place. In the back bedroom, they found the victim. She was alive, but she was in big trouble. The kidnapper had her tied up and held at gunpoint, and John froze. The sight of a six-year-old child being held hostage like that was sickening; Chelsea Bartlett was blindfolded and gagged, tied up so she couldn’t escape, that was bad enough. But John recognized the woman holding her hostage and he felt a slide of something cold in his gut as goose bumps broke out along his arms and the back of his neck. Shit.

“Mary?” He breathed, not entirely sure he wasn’t suddenly hallucinating. It wouldn’t surprise him, given how exhausted he was at this point.

“Well, well. Look who’s running for The Met again. Hello, John.” The blonde-haired woman standing over Chelsea had recognized him as well, and her smile was ... well, evil was a word that came to mind. 

“Mary ... ” he cut himself off. That was not her name, it never had been. “Jesus Christ, what are you doing?” And hell if he hadn’t gotten out while the getting was good. He hated being right about little things like intuition, he’d always felt there was something not quite on about Mary Morstan and had never been able to pinpoint exactly what it was. Or why it was such a problem.

“Oh come on, John. You always loved a bit of a game, didn’t you?”

“This isn’t a game, people’s _lives_ are at stake.” He wasn’t sure why he was so calm right now. “Don’t do this, please. Chelsea Bartlett never did anything to deserve this, just … just let her go. She has no part in this.”

“If any of you so much as takes a step in my direction, I shoot the girl.” Vincent pressed the muzzle of her gun to the back of Chelsea’s head to make her point. John’s mind was racing even as Vincent showed them a detonator switch and threatened to bring the whole house down on them if anyone tried any funny business.

 

Nichols quickly called in the change in dynamic, told Greg to order everyone on site to stand down or they’d all get killed. John wasn’t panicking, though, he was running through scenarios in his head. As he looked around the room, he picked out details and filed them away. Taking a deep breath, he braced his left hand with his right and put his whole focus on his now ex-girlfriend.  A commotion outside split his focus, and all he was aware of was shouting and a blur of motion close to the floor. It was Brèagha, she must have gotten free of Greg somehow and come after them. In the time it took for any of them to react, Brèagha had gotten between John and Vincent.

“Chelsea, get down!” He shouted, even as Brèagha launched herself at Vincent, who was sufficiently startled at the sight of a dog coming straight for her, it’s intent and purpose very clear. As Brèagha made contact, three gunshots echoed in the room. John knew he’d been hit, he felt the impact. No pain, but he’d definitely been hit. He heard Nichols give a shout and someone tried to catch him as he went down. His last thought was that Irene was going to kill him for this.

 

*** 

 

John wasn’t sure how long it had been when he finally regained consciousness, but going by the headache and the pain in his chest, he was still alive. Concussion and bruising, if he had to guess. There was a line in his arm, another in his hand, held in place with a transparent dressing.  Nasal cannula carefully taped into place delivered humidified O2 to help him breathe. There was a stiffness on his torso that spoke to some sort of bandaging. Could have been worse. Could have been a lot worse.

“John?” The voice he heard was not Irene’s. “Hey, you’re awake.

“Greg?” John turned to find Greg, who looked a bit white in the face, sitting at his bedside. He was in the hospital, probably had been for a while.

“How’s your head, mate?”

“If they tell me I don’t have a concussion, they’re lying.” He raised one hand and touched his forehead. “Did you get Chelsea Bartlett out safely?”

“Yeah, we got her out.” Greg rubbed his hands together and looked at John a bit sideways, “Was it really ... Mary?”

“Yeah, yeah it was.” He sighed, wincing at the pain-spike. “Recognized her right away.”

“Jesus Christ, I am so sorry, John. How did you ... ?”

“I knew protecting Chelsea was the most important thing I had to do. So ... I did.”

“What a hell of a Christmas!”

“I’m alive, Greg, that’s enough for me.” He looked around the small room, “Irene’s going to kill me for this.”

“Someone else already tried to, she’s not interested in finishing the job.” Greg leaned against the bed and lowered his head a bit, “Christ, John, landing in the hospital for doing something stupid was Sherlock’s job, not yours.”

“I’m sorry,” John said quietly. How many times had they sat bedside for Sherlock sodding Holmes, just like this? John wasn’t usually the one in the hospital bed, it was unnerving to be on this side of the arrangement. The door of the small room opened and John turned his head a bit.

“Greg?” A voice called out quietly.  A very familiar voice John was so glad to hear it wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t be that happy to hear her voice, not after the mess he’d gotten into. But he had missed her awfully while working on this case.

“He’s awake, Irene. You can come in.” Greg pushed to his feet. John felt a thrill and wished for a moment that he wasn’t in the hospital. She was not going to be very happy with him. A week apart and he’d landed in the hospital after things went a bit pear-shaped during a case.

 

When he got his first glimpse of his girlfriend, if such a simple word could come even close to describing what she was to and for him, John blinked, stunned. She must have come from an appointment, she was wearing one of what John liked to call her “special occasion” dresses. Today’s wardrobe selection was a flattering black body-con dress that came to her knees and no further with a bit of sparkle in the all-over lace. And four-inch stilettos, by the looks. Her coat was over one arm for her visit, but he suspected from the glimmer of moisture in her hair that it was a bit damp outside the hospital. It had been a bit wet earlier, overcast and John swore he could smell snow on the air. Her makeup was, of course, on point, thanks to Kate’s skill with makeup brushes. Something neutral but still just bold enough. She looked gorgeous, and he would have blamed the drugs if he didn’t think that of her on his sober days.

“Irene?”

“John! Oh, Christ, you’re awake! Thank God!” She came straight to the bedside, “Are you alright, love?”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” He took the hand she offered him, feeling a weight in his chest. Guilt. “I didn’t ... I didn’t think it ... ”

“Stop it, John, you are  _alive_.” She squeezed his hand, “That’s the only thing that matters to me right now!”

“I hate hurting you like this.”

“You were doing what you had to do.” Irene used her free hand to touch his hair, push the fringe off his forehead. “Time for a haircut again, love, getting a bit long.”

“You like it this length, more of a handhold.” He couldn’t help himself, and it did get her to smile. Behind them, Greg snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Oh, come on, you two! In public?”

“You do not count as “public”, Inspector Lestrade.” Irene’s voice was soft and velvet, just a hint of that dangerous edge to it. John didn’t know if it was drugs in his system or what, but he giggled. It hurt a bit, but it was worth the pain.

“Oh, Greg?”

“Hmm?”

“Where’s Brèagha?”

“Sally’s got ‘er, said she’d be happy to bring ‘er over if you want to see your dog.”

“She wasn’t hurt in the stand-off?”

“Not a scratch on her. Which is more than I can say for  _you_.”

“Oh, shut up, Greg.” John gave the DI a dirty look, “I have plenty of people to rag on me, you don’t have to be one of them.” A scolding tug on his hair was all the reprimand Irene issued him for getting mouthy with Greg.

“I absolutely do. Just you try and stop me.” John decided not to give him the dignity of a response. He settled for a scathing look, he didn’t have much energy for anything else. “Well, you’re in excellent hands, I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

“Thanks for staying with me, Greg, I know you had other things to worry about.”

“John, you are worth sitting in the hospital for.” Greg leaned over and squeezed his other hand, Irene wasn’t exactly letting go. “See you in the New Year at this rate.”

“Most likely.”

“Take care of yourselves, kids. I’ll catch you later.” Greg had his coat in hand and was out the door with a wave, pulling the curtain across the door as an extra privacy measure. “I’ll send Sal along in a bit with Brèagha, John.”

“Thanks, Greg. See you.” John waited for the room to quiet and closed his eyes. Irene settled into the chair Greg had been sitting in, laying her coat over the back of it, and took his hand in both of hers. Talking would happen later, as would any scolding, all she wanted was to touch and reassure for now. John would let her do that, and almost anything else she wanted. He deserved more than a few scolding words for the stunt he’d pulled at the Compton Road scene. Chelsea Bartlett was safe, Rosamund Vincent was dead – and with her Mary Morstan, and good riddance to ‘er. He’d be an idiot if he didn’t think she’d deliberately taken aim at him, out of spite.

 

As it got quiet in the room again, John took a minute to reflect on things. How his life had changed since 2011 and how much he had changed and yet remained the same. That had been a little over two years ago, there had been good days and bad ones alike, the few friends he had retained after the Moriarty fiasco had done their best to keep him afloat. John had spent a year trying to get his life back on track after Sherlock had committed suicide, had actually moved out of London for a year before realizing that really was the only place he was truly happy. So, coming back to London, he’d moved into a small place in Islington and tried to get his life back on track. Then he’d gotten arrested for painting graffiti on the side of an abandoned warehouse and spent a month in jail. Getting out of jail, he had met Irene Adler and things had gotten better after that. Meeting Irene Adler had seemed like a boon, something to keep him interested, someone who saw beyond the infamy and reputation. They had an unusual relationship, not quite boyfriend-girlfriend but not casual acquaintances. He still dated other people after she gave him the freedom to do so, but he always came back to Irene and he didn’t date as often as he had when living with Sherlock. And he never  _ever_ got intimate beyond kissing and cuddling, it was his choice and had led to the dissolution of more than one short-lived relationship. Not that he really minded that much, his priorities were quite different these days.

“Get out of your head, Captain, right now.” Irene squeezed his hand tightly and he blinked his eyes open.

“I’m sorry, Miss Adler.” He looked at her face, wondering why he’d ever bothered dating anyone else when he had someone like this faithful to him. “What gave me away?”

“You get this wrinkle between your eyes when you go to that dark part of your head and start over-thinking things.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” He sighed, “Who ... um, who told you? How did you find out about ... this?” He gestured with his free hand at the room he was in. Anything Irene might have said had to wait, the door opened to admit the doctor assigned to John’s care-team. John recognized him right away and blinked.

“John Watson, you are a complete moron. You know that, right?” The look Mike Stamford gave him over the top of his chart was one John was unfortunately quite familiar with.

“Mike?!” He croaked, “How the ... um, hi?”

“Don’t you dare “um, hi?” me, you idiot. Scared me and half the people you know with that stupid stunt. What were you thinking?”

“In my defence, Doctor Stamford, I didn’t know our suspect was Rosamund Vincent, aka Mary Morstan, when I made entry,” John said quietly as his old school-mate came up to the bedside. “I just sort of ... reacted to the situation?”

“You need to be more careful, John, you are not quite as expendable as you might like to think.” Mike scribbled something on the chart and looked at John over the rim of his glasses, his expression disgruntled. Something clicked into place in John’s head and he blinked.

“Oh, no! Wait a minute! You didn’t ... ” He trailed off and looked from Stamford to Irene, “Did  _he_ call you?”

“Yes, he did. Introduced himself and explained everything he knew.” Irene’s voice was deceptively calm. “I left as soon as he told me I could come to visit.”

“Er, if you’re my care-lead, where ... at the risk of sounding stupid, where are we?”

“Saint Bart’s. I know it’s not your favourite place, but this is where they brought you, mate.” Mike laid the chart aside and looked down at John, his gaze a bit kinder. “How do you feel?”

“Somewhere between getting shot in the shoulder and getting kicked in the chest by a horse. And since both of those things have happened to me ... ”

“How would you rate your pain, then?”

“Shit, maybe a 3? I mean, my head’s a little fuzzy and I feel like I took a rock to the back of the skull, that’s what I get for a concussion. High 4, if I’m being generous.” John sniffled, “I’m lucky I had a vest on, or I’d probably be dead by now.”

“Actually, a concussion’s pretty much the only thing you didn’t get from being a bloody idiot.” Mike raised an eyebrow, “Two CT scans to clear that up, no signs or symptoms. You  _do_ have bruising on your chest from the impact injury.”

“Yeah, I can feel that, ta.” John rubbed a bit at the soreness, “Feels like if I hadn’t been wearing gear, she would have shot me here.” He touched where the wound might have been if he hadn’t worn protective gear, somewhere between his lungs and liver. Thank god for ballistics-grade armour vests, his had saved his life.

“Myocardial contusion?”

“Yep.”

“Mm.” He narrowed his eyes. Irene handed him a cup with a straw to let him drink and he figured dehydration figured into things somewhere.

“What about, um ... commotio cordis?”

“Yes.” Stamford nodded. “But you didn’t suffer from cardiac arrest. Lestrade said you were standing near the door of the room and the suspect was on the other side of the room when shots were fired.”

“The distance between us, my armour-vest, and the fact that Bréagha took her on were affecting the angle of trajectory. They must have.”

“You’re lucky you were wearing that vest, John.”

“Greg gave it to me last Christmas. I’ve worn it on every case in the field since then.” John squeezed Irene’s hand, grateful he was able to see her again, lucky she was in his life at all.

“After things calm down, John, you and me are going out for drinks. You owe me a story.” Stamford looked from John to Irene and smiled, “How the bloody hell did the two of you even meet?”

“It’s a hell of a story, Mike. The short version is we met back in September 2010, lost touch for a while, and then Irene posted my bail in 2012 after I was arrested for vandalism and criminal mischief. The rest is kind of history.”

“You owe me the long version of that story! Maybe in the New Year, hmm?”

“Sure. My schedule’s pretty wide open.”

“Doctor Stamford, when can he go home?” Irene broke in carefully, asking a decent question. If it had been John in Stamford’s shoes, he’d keep the patient overnight at least. Maybe a day or two for good measure.

“We’ll keep him at least for tonight, reassess in the morning and go from there.” Stamford glanced at the machines tracking John’s unstable vitals. “I’d at least like his heart-rate to stabilize before I send him home, and we’re in good position to treat them here if any unexpected symptoms pop up.”

“What a crazy Christmas this turned out to be.” John sighed, “At least Chelsea Bartlett’s family got their happy ending.” The pain medication was starting to wear off, he felt that particular ache in his chest.

“Is there something we can give him for pain management, Doctor Stamford?” He hadn’t said anything, but trust Irene to know exactly what was going on. “Whatever he had has worn off.”

“Not a 4 anymore, Watson?”

“Nope. 5 or 6 now.”

“I’ve got you, mate.” Stamford smiled and reached over to one of the machines he had been hooked up to, did something to the dial, and John felt better a short time later. Not morphine, but something similar.

“Thanks, Mike.” He said, settling against the stiffer pillows. He missed Irene’s bed,  _his_  bed.

“I’ll let you get some rest. If you need anything, just call the nurses.”

“Will do.” John nodded a bit and watched Stamford leave. Once the door had closed, he sighed. “Boy, that could have gone worse.”

“Drink a bit more water and get some sleep, John, without a concussion you can sleep as much as you like.” Irene rearranged the blankets around him and handed him the water cup again. He took a couple of sips and gave the cup back to her. Closing his eyes, he tried to relax enough to sleep, but couldn’t quite manage.

“Sleep, John. You need it.” She murmured, stroking his hair with one hand.

“Observant girl.”

“Have to be, especially where you’re concerned.” John heard the scolding tone in her voice and grinned. It could be a whole hell of a lot worse, he could be in far worse condition and all alone, practically stranded at the hospital, or even dead. He wasn’t either stranded or dead, and he wouldn’t be ever again if he didn’t want to be. Somehow, he managed to fall asleep. Irene stayed with him all the while, never complaining about the circumstances.

* * *

* * *


	14. Stand By Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the excitement on Christmas Eve, John recovers and prepares to ring in a new year. And, as she has been every time he has been in need of companionship, Irene is with him. What might the coming year have in store for John Watson? There are questions need asking and answers to be given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nod to The Empty Hearse in this one. But instead of Mary, we have lovely Irene Adler.

* * *

* * *

John was two days in the hospital after his involvement in a police stand-off during a case, but once he was released, Irene asked where he wanted to go to get away from London. Travel by plane was kind of out of the question, for his own sake, but driving or taking a train was an option. Where did he want to go? Did he want to go anywhere?

“Honestly? I just want to stay here.” He looked up from reading, they were getting ready for bed. It was two days after he’d been released from the hospital and he’d been a bit of a homebody since then.  At the moment, he was in bed with a book and a cup of tea, Bréagha was curled up on the blankets at his feet, sort of resting between his legs as he made room for her there.

“Then we can stay here. No plans?” Irene came over to the bed and took her side.

“Not right now.” He shrugged and turned the page. Bréagha lifted her head and watched Irene settle in, making a soft sound that made them both smile.

“Oh, stop it, you jealous thing.” Irene scolded, reaching over to give Bréagha the affection she wanted, “I wasn’t going to forget you.”

“Hard to with how big she is.” John smiled at his dog, who had taken to Irene right away on their first meeting and kind of slotted herself into their lives on Eaton Square. There were some adjustments to be made, of course, London was like nothing Bréagha had experienced before in her life, but they had the time to spend with her and the patience for her moments of unpredictability. Irene took the book from him, marked the page as she set it aside, and tugged on his shirt enough to lift the material so she could see the bruising from the impact injury.

“I’m so glad Greg gave you that vest. It saved your life.”

“It absolutely did. There’s a reason I wear it on every case afield.” He grimaced a bit as he felt a familiar ache. Irene leaned in and kissed the bruise where the entry-wound should have been, John let her. He would be following up with his cardiologist in two weeks, and another two weeks after that for good measure, to account for any late or lingering symptoms. He hadn’t gone out on any live cases, but he’d worked plenty of cold cases and a few live ones from home. Greg and Donovan were stopping by almost daily to check on him, he appreciated that.

“Do you want the Vicodin to help you sleep?”

“Might as well. At least it works. And it’s not morphine.” John coughed a little, and Irene kissed him on the cheek before she disappeared into the en-suite again to retrieve a few of the medications he had been sent home with. Returning with three pills, she handed them over and he took them with the tea. Two Vicodin and a Sominex, for pain and insomnia. It would help.

He had seen Doctor Meyers the day after being released from the hospital and was happy to admit he thought her quite competent. She treated him as she treated all of her patients, with care and competence, and didn’t seem at all bothered by his reputation. She knew who he was, of course, but she was very professional about things. He didn’t have any qualms about seeing someone who treated him respectfully and competently and didn’t seem bothered by his pseudo-celebrity status.

“Sleep well, my love. Tomorrow’s another day.” Irene turned out the bedside lights and kissed him on the cheek as they settled in for sleep. There was some rearranging before they were properly settled, and John hoped he would sleep more than three hours.

 

***

 

John rang in the New Year with Irene a week after he killed Rosamund Vincent, known to him and all of his friends as Mary Morstan, during a police standoff between Vincent and The Met. They had dinner at The Landmark, a former 1920s cinema turned into a restaurant in the mid-90s and a favourite date-night venue of John and Irene. Their server that night was a rather odd fellow, new to the staff apparently, with the strangest accent John had ever heard. It sounded French, but in the way someone not quite familiar with the language will sound if they haven’t spoken it in a while.

 

While Irene was in the ladies, having stepped away for a moment, he was approached by their server. He had a tray with several wine-glasses on it, with a small quantity of wine in each, and John quietly groaned. That’s right, he’d asked the bloke for suggestions on wine and he had offered a wine-flight to give John an idea of what the restaurant stocked. John had gone for it and sent the man on his way.

“I’m so sorry for the delay, sir!”

“That’s alright.” John looked up and made eye contact with the server, trying to ignore the part of his brain that had him seeing Sherlock everywhere.

“Well, these are all excellent vintages.” The server laid the glasses on the table very carefully, “Would you like to choose one, sir?”

“Er, it’s not really my area.” John made a face, they all looked the same to him, and most of them tasted the same. “What do you suggest?”

“Well, you cannot possibly go wrong, but, erm, if you’d like my personal recommendation ...”

“Trust me, even the busboys know more about wine than I do.” John shook his head, “Wine is more Irene’s thing, or hell, even Mycroft’s. Not mine.”

“Then allow me to help you, sir!” The server gave him a bright smile and John was reminded for a moment of Sherlock, the way he had smiled when he was legitimately happy about something. The way he would smile at John when he was legitimately happy.

 

So, John sat through a brief but thorough explanation of what each wine was, the vintage, year, and vineyard for each, tasted each one. He didn’t fancy one over the other, but he was more of a beer-drinker and wine was kind of a fancy, special-occasion drink for him.

“ ... this last one on the list is a favourite of mine.” The server pushed the last glass towards him, John swore his fingers shook, “It is – you might, in fact, say – like a face from ze past.” There was that bizarre accent again.

“Mm-hm.” John picked up the glass and took a sip. Of all the wine he’d tasted, this one actually tasted good to him. He knew Irene would like it, and it appealed to his substandard palate.

“I’ll have that one, please.” He set the glass down.

“It is familiar, but, er, with the quality of surprise! Yes?”

“Well, then, surprise me.”

“Certainly endeavouring to, sir.” Another smile. “A bottle, sir? Or just a glass?”

“Bottle, if you please? It’s the only one I liked the taste of, and my taste is … questionable.” He looked up at the man.

“I’m sorry to be rude, but I’ve been trying to figure out your accent all evening. Where are you from?”

“Oh, I was…born here, yes, but my mother has family in France.”

“I thought so! What part of it?”

“Outside of Avignon, sir. Are you familiar with the country?”

“I’ve spent time in Paris, and I had a friend with family in Avignon, actually. It’s a lovely place.” John picked up the glass as the server collected the rest of them and disappeared with a bow.

“I will be back shortly, sir, so very sorry for the delay.”

“It’s fine.” He watched the server disappear and sighed. What was it about him, then? God, he needed help. Irene returned and John handed over his glass.

“Ooh, what’s this?”

“Y’know, I can’t recall the name of it, but it’s the only one I liked.” He smiled and let her take a sip. “Tell me what you think of it. You’re the one with the taste for good wine.” Irene just rolled her eyes.

“So, have you figured out our handsome server yet?”

“He says he’s got family outside of Avignon. Explains some of that peculiar accent of his.”

“Mhm.” Irene just raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t explain why you keep seeing Sherlock Holmes in every tall, dark-haired bloke you’ve laid eyes on in the last week.”

“I’m sorry, Irene. You deserve better from me.” John sighed, running his finger around the rim of his water-glass. “I just wish I could explain why I don’t believe everyone who tells me he’s dead. Has been for two years. He’s not coming back, so just move on.”

“Because we both know it’s not true.”

“I identified his fucking body, Irene. It was probably one of the most awful things I’ve ever had to do.” John said quietly, looking at Irene. “If it wasn’t him that day, why hasn’t he given me some sign? Some word to let me know I haven’t been going out of my head?”

“Because it wasn’t safe to tell you.” Irene took his hand in hers, “Can you imagine how dangerous it was for both of you? Moriarty’s people had to believe he was dead, and to make it believable to the rest of them, you had to believe he was dead.”

“So, I’m not just making this up?”

“No, John. I don’t think you’re just making it up. I think Sherlock Holmes is alive and when he’s ready, he’ll reveal himself.”

“Probably in some outrageous, infuriating way, acting like it’s no big deal he’s been gone for two years and left me thinking the worst.” John made a face, “Thoughtless bastard.”

“John!” Irene glared at him, “Don’t you say that! You know he did it for your sake!”

“Still a selfish bastard. Even you can admit that about him.” He took a sip of water. Their server returned with the bottle and poured two glasses for them.

“Sir, I think you’ll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking. It ’as all the qualities of the old, with some of the colour of the new.” He handed John one glass, making pointed eye-contact, “Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers ... suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend.” It was a legitimately bizarre thing to say, especially to a complete stranger, but the moment John made eye-contact in return, the face he kept seeing on every tall, dark-haired bloke on the streets crystallized. That bloody smile, and then he winked. He winked at John!

“I’ll have your orders out as soon as possible! Please, enjoy the wine!” He said cheerfully as he left the table. Had John ordered? He didn’t remember ordering. He must have, but…when? John watched until he was out of sight, and kept staring at the last place he’d seen their server.

“John? John, what is it?” Irene touched his wrist, trying to get his attention, “What is it, what did you see?”

“Did you see that?” He whispered.

“See what? Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Oh my god.” John took a deep breath and looked at his girlfriend. “Irene, this is absolutely mad.”

“You saw him again, didn’t you?”

“It can’t be him, it just…there’s no way it’s him.”

“If it is him, there’s nothing you can do about it.” Irene took a sip of her wine, John focused on the way her fingers cradled the glass, the contrast of the blood-red shade of her nail-polish against the paleness of the wine, the slightest smudge of lipstick in the same shade on the rim when she lowered the glass to the table. “If he wants you to know, he’ll make it more obvious.”

“And I still wouldn’t notice. You know me, Irene, I miss things right in front of me all the time.”

“Not the important things.” She smiled and took his hand in hers, running her fingertips over the back of his hand. Their server was back a few minutes later with whatever they had ordered for dinner. John realized that Irene had done the ordering for both of them as two plates of roasted scallops in the half-shell were delivered. After making sure they didn’t need anything else, he was gone again.

“I know what you like.” Irene said in response to the unspoken question. John chuckled. Well, that was true. And not just regarding food, for what that was worth. It was quiet while they ate, but a pleasant, familiar quiet John was used to experiencing.

 

After clearing the starters, their server brought their main courses: charred aubergine with dukkah, cauliflower, toasted quinoa, tomato, and harissa for Irene; and Angus fillet with roast vegetables, buttered greens, dauphinoise potato, and truffle sauce for John. It paired surprisingly well with the wine their Sherlock Holmes doppelganger had chosen for them, but then again, he always had possessed better taste about that sort of thing than John did. And that, regrettably, had not changed much at all in the last two years. For dessert, crème brûlée and sticky toffee pudding. Again, paired well with the chardonnay. They kept up a running stream of conversation, politics, religion, the standard.

 

As it crept towards Midnight and the ringing in of the New Year, John decided champagne was called for and ordered two glasses of Brut Rosé.

“What else is on your mind, Captain?” Irene asked as they waited for the champagne.

“Hmm?” John pulled away from his thoughts, realizing he’d wandered off a bit.

“You’ve got that look on your face.” She smiled, leaning towards him, “What are you thinking about?”

“Well, er.” He took a sip of wine, swallowed. “Um, actually ... us.”

“You’re thinking about us, are you?” Her gaze turned a bit wicked, “You seem to do that an awful lot, you know that?”

“It’s ... silly. I mean, we ... I know it hasn’t been long ... I ... I know we haven’t known each other for a long time ... ” John trailed off, a bit at a loss for words.

“Go on.” Irene prompted softly. He didn’t deserve her, he just didn’t.

“As you know, these last couple of years haven’t been easy for me; and meeting you ... Yeah, meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened.”

“I agree.” Irene picked up her wine.

“What?” John was caught off guard a bit and looked at her.

“I agree I’m the best thing that could have happened to you.” Her smile was sweet but dangerous, flirty. It was one of his favourite smiles of hers.

“You ... you know how bad it’s been for me, and ... well ... ”

“Why are you so nervous, John?”

“I just ... I realize we’ve been together for a year, living together for a year, and ...”

“You know, you’re cute when you’re nervous.”

“Don’t be mean. I’m trying to be serious here.”

“I’m not being mean! You have these little habits when you’re flustered.” She chuckled at his indignation, “You know I love you, right?”

“Irene.”

“And I’m obligated to pick on you when you get like that.”

“Irene!”

“Yes, dear?”

“Shut up.”

“Or what?” Oh, god, that smile.

“Or I’ll marry you.” John gave her a level look. The way her expression changed so quickly was a point of pride. He’d caught _her_ off guard this time. That didn’t happen often, but he seemed to be the only person capable of it at all.

“Excuse me?” Her eyes narrowed and John said a quick prayer to whatever deity was listening. Taking a deep breath, John cast a quick look ‘round the dining-room, at other patrons, serving-staff, thought he saw Sherlock’s doppelganger coming their way.

_Forgive me, Sherlock. I would have asked you, I wanted to ask you, but ... you left me. Irene picked up the pieces of the man left in the wake of your departure and put me back together._

“What are you thinking, Captain?” Irene asked quietly, knowing how to get him back on track and back on focus. She was so good at that. Getting his nerves under control, John looked at Irene. Time to put his heart on the line. He had never wanted to ask anyone to marry him so badly, except perhaps Sherlock, but that chance had passed them by and he didn’t think Sherlock saw him that way. They were friends, best friends, they had amazing sex, they took care of each other, drove each other bonkers and bickered like an old married couple. He felt a tiny bit guilty, a bit like he was betraying Sherlock by even thinking about asking someone else. He wasn’t going to ask Sherlock to do something he wasn’t interested in doing with John. John wasn’t meant for Sherlock, he knew that. Maybe Sherlock didn’t, but John did. So ... he would ask Irene.

 

It was nearly midnight, nearly the start of a new year. Five minutes to go, by his watch. Now or never, Watson. Hell of a way to ring in the New Year.

“Irene, I know it hasn’t been long, I know we haven’t known each other for a long time. As you know, these last couple of years haven’t been easy for me; and meeting you ... meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened.”

“You said that already.” She looked at him carefully, curiously. “What are you up to?”

“Last week, I realized how ... important you were to me. Have been for a while. You ... you opened your home to me when I had nowhere to go, no one to turn to, you took care of me when I was at my lowest, at my worst.” He kept his gaze averted, nerves creeping back in along the edges. “I showed up at your door looking more like a bum from Sherlock’s bleeding Homeless Network, a backpack with my worldly belongings over one shoulder. You let me in, you _took_ me in, you ... showed me compassion. For someone like me, in that position, it was amazing to be treated like a human being, like I mattered.”

“John Watson, you are brave, careless, kind-hearted, brazen, an absolute bastard on your worst days. But I know this about you, I know everything about you.” Irene looked at John, her gaze soft but stern. “I always worry about you when you’re at work.”

“I know. It was awful, I couldn’t remember if I had said I love you or not before the stand-off. If I said it that morning. I hadn’t seen you in four days.”

“You did say it, John. We Skyped that morning, remember?”

“I don’t.” He took her hand. “You were the first person I thought of when I was shot, I thought of how ... devastated you would be. I didn’t want to leave you like that.”

“You didn’t leave me, my love. Your vest saved your life, there were multiple factors operating in your favour.” Irene linked their fingers together as their server arrived with two glasses of champagne.

“Are we celebrating anything special tonight?” He asked as he gave Irene one of the glasses.

“No, just taking some time to be grateful for certain people in my life and missing others,” John admitted, for a moment missing Sherlock. He had hated the noise and crowds associated with New Years Eve, but all John had to do was ask sweetly to get himself a rather proper kiss.

“I hope you have a very happy and fulfilling New Year.” Their server tucked his tray under one arm with that smile, “Perhaps old friendships can be renewed?”

“That would take a bloody miracle.” John sniffed.

“I suppose a man of medicine like yourself wouldn’t believe in such things?”

“How on earth did you...”

“You have specific calluses on your fingers from handling a scalpel. And the way you handle a dinner-knife is very particular.”

“Oh. I ... honestly, I don’t even know I’m doing it.” John looked at his hands, “Guess I must be an open book to everyone, huh?”

“Oh no, just to those who know how to read.” Their server gave John a very significant look, “Please do take care of yourself, Doctor Watson. Both of you, please have a blessed New Year.”

“Thank you.” John and Irene looked at each other as he walked away. Had that whole conversation been as surreal as it had seemed to be?

“What an unusual man.” Irene mused quietly.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that’s Sherlock Holmes who’s been on us all night.” John sighed. “I’m not an idiot, Irene.”

“No, but if you are, you’re my idiot.”

“Oh, you’re charming, aren’t you!” He said, no real heat in his words. She didn’t mean anything by it, and they both knew it.

 

It was ticking closer to Midnight, closer to the New Year, and as John shifted back against the wall of the booth they were seated in, he felt something digging into his hip. What on...oh. As he closed his fingers around the object, he remembered what he’d put in his pockets earlier while he had been getting ready for the evening. Before he could talk himself out of this, John slid from his seat, got up, and walked three paces around the table to reach Irene’s side.

“What are you doing, Captain?”

“Hush, and let me do it. Say no, and I’ll give it to you for a promise if you want.” _Please don’t say no._ Getting his nerves under control, John carefully removed the box from his pocket, turning it over in his hand. “But if you’ll have me, Irene Elizabeth Adler, could you see your way ... if you could see your way to saying yes to this idiot and making me the happiest I’ve ever been?”

“Are you ... asking me to ... ” She trailed off as he dropped carefully to one knee, that box in his hand.

“Marry me, Irene Adler. Please. I’m asking you to be partner to me in everything. Take my name or keep your own, just ... please say yes?”

“Oh my God, John. Why?”

“Because you’re the most important person in my life. And last week made me realize just _how_ important. And how much I didn’t want to be alone anymore.

“How did ... ?”

“Four people helped me pick out this ring, and I’m damn sure it’ll fit.”

“It’s gorgeous.” She took the box from him, “What changes between us if I say yes?”

“We have to file the proper papers, of course, and tell any of our friends we want to inform, and I have to put up with badgering for proposing to a high-class woman like you.”

“I already worry about you when you’re at work, but now it’s not my boyfriend or my paramour I’m worrying about. Now it’s my fiancé. That’s very important.”

“I know. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.” He took her hand, “Please, Irene?”

“Please, what?” An eyebrow went up and John sighed. It was like that, then? Well, he could play along.

“Please, Miss Adler. Will you do me an incredible honour and be my wife?”

“I would be absolutely happy to.” She got to her feet and held out one hand to him. “And the honour is mine, Captain Watson.” Getting up, he took the ring and fitted it in place. Like he’d known it would, it fit perfectly. Surrounded by fellow revellers, nearly all of whom had just witnessed a very spontaneous proposal, John and Irene rang in the New Year together and if their kiss was a bit sloppier than usual, they just blamed it on the tears and the nerves.

 

Once they had drunk the champagne, John paid the bill and offered to take Irene home.

“Yes you may, Captain.” Irene just smiled up at him and they fetched their coats. Their server was there to hold the door for them, to bid them a good night and wish them luck.

“Miss Adler, you are possibly the luckiest woman in London tonight. Do not let this man out of your sight, there’s no one else like him.”

“Oh, I know. There is absolutely no one else like John Watson. And we’re the lucky ones of the world who get to have him.” Irene smiled at their server, who held the door of the car for them. “I don’t imagine you have someone to go home to?”

“I’m afraid my luck hasn’t been as good as yours, Miss Adler.” Oh, he looked so _sad_. It was Sherlock, John just _knew_ it was Sherlock. Bloody hell, when had he gotten back to London? And how long had he been back? John would have to be crafty about finding Sherlock later, maybe it was time to drum up a couple of his MI-6 contacts. He suspected Q might know, James would certainly know something. Could he possibly ask M? Hmm. Concerns for later dissemination.

“Good night, Sherlock.” He said quietly, so quietly as not to be heard. Once the car-door had shut out the night, Kate looked over her shoulder.

“Home for you two, Captain?”

“Yes, please, Kate. Thanks so much.” John smiled at Kate, who gave him a crooked salute and got them underway, putting up the divider to give them some privacy.

 

Irene spent most of the drive admiring the ring John had given her. It wasn’t the most expensive ring, but four people had helped him pick it out when he couldn’t make up his bloody mind. Three-stone setting, forty-four accent stones, 18-karat gold band; and he’d run the size past both Kate and Anthea, who were within a half-size of Irene, and knew it would fit her if it fit them. And it had. Rather beautifully. When they got home, John took Irene to bed and they made love before falling asleep together. It had been a perfect evening, really, and the perfect way to usher in the New Year.

* * *

* * *

 


	15. Ask and Recieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new year is underway and John's life is about to get a bit more interesting. Old friends long missed make careful reappearances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock reunion! More like the ACD reunion than the BBC reunion, because I wanted my boys to be happy to see each other again.

* * *

* * *

After one of the most memorable New Year’s Eves in recent memory, John noticed that life didn’t really change much. He spent as much time on case-work as he had before, texts and phone-calls while afield were still regular and he still got teasing from everyone else when he took a minute to himself on a case. It hadn’t taken long for word to get around about the engagement, but there didn’t seem to be very many people who thought it was a bad idea. Molly had just squealed and given John a hug when she found out, Mycroft had found out through Molly. Greg found out the day after when John joined them on a case.  John had also paid a visit to Baker Street just to tell Mrs Hudson in person. She had been surprised, but supportive. It was clear he was happier, healthier, and it had been obvious to her for a while that he had someone special in his life who was taking care of him. It didn’t matter to her at all that it was someone like Irene Adler.

 

One afternoon, a little over a week later, John was coming home from another long case with Greg, nothing quite as exciting as that kidnapping at Christmas had been, and he was half-dead on his feet as he let himself into the Eaton Square house. He knew Irene was home, she had a full roster of clients again. On that list, if he wasn’t mistaken, were the Prime Minister and Mycroft Holmes. Rosemary opened the door to him when he fumbled the lock again and hustled him into the house, tutting at the state of him and scolding him in German. It had taken him a year to learn that the Bolivian blood had been brought into the family back in her maternal great-grandfather’s day and she was far more German than Bolivian. But none of that mattered, really. She did her job well and kept them well-fed and scolded them when they didn’t take care of themselves. Kind of like right now.

 

Forty-five minutes later, he had taken a shower and was sitting in the kitchen with a plate of Franzbrötchen and coffee while Rosemary gave him an earful for not looking after himself during the case. Bréagha lay at his feet under the table, her head on his left foot with her eye on the door. Suddenly, she shifted and raised her head. John recognized the body-language, knew she’d heard something at the door.

“What is it, girl?” He looked at his companion animal, who had her ears up. “Hear something?” A moment later, the bell sounded. John looked at Rosemary.

“We weren’t expecting anyone, were we?”

“No, Miss Adler’s with a client.” They listened as Kate opened the door to whoever had come calling. Not a minute later, she was giving a shout.

“Watson!”

“What on earth?” He was halfway to his feet, one hand on his cane, the other trailing to his waistband to rest on the grip of his Browning.

“I think you’d better go.” Rosemary said quietly.

“So do I.” He nodded and got his feet under him, heading for the foyer. As he set eyes on the man Kate had opened the door to, he thought for a minute he was hallucinating. He had seen so many doppelgangers over the three years since 5 May 2011, but it had never actually been Sherlock. There had been a close call on New Year’s Eve, and John was still convinced it had been Sherlock that night. And now, the man standing on their porch; the hair, the facial structure, the _coat_. That ridiculous Belstaff! There was no one else it could possibly be.

“Oh my god.” 

“Hello, John.” Sherlock had his hands folded behind his back like a child awaiting reprimand, a sheepish expression on his face.

“Sodding hell. Sherlock!” He breathed, stepping out of the house. “Oh, you’re alive! Oh my god, all this time!”

“I am so sorry, John. I never ever meant to hurt you! Please, please don’t be angry with me?”

“Sweetheart, oh my god. Of course I’m not angry! Not with you!” John was careful as he hugged his best friend, but he held on tightly. “All these years! Every fucking day, I missed … everything! You, and Baker Street, and Mrs Hudson!”

“Oh, John.” Sherlock leaned against him as he returned John’s embrace, but John didn’t mind at all. A bit of commotion behind them turned out to be Bréagha. She had followed him from the kitchen, and he heard her growling softly as she put herself between Sherlock and John, forcing them apart.

“Easy, girl.” He murmured, one hand on her crest. “He’s a friend.” It was obvious Bréagha didn’t believe him. She wouldn’t attack Sherlock out of hand, but until he proved himself a friend, she wouldn’t be nice to him.

“What’s her name, John?”

“This is Bréagha.”

“Your stray from Maiwand?”

“Yeah. Good, uh, good memory.” He let out a slow breath, “Jesus Christ, what are you...how did you find us?”

“Well, no offence, but you aren’t exactly hard to find.” He’d be damned if Sherlock didn’t smile at him, “Of all the houses, all the addresses in London, you live here.”

“I’ve lived here since 2012.”

“Well, are you two just going to stand there or are you going to come inside?” Kate piped up from the doorway.

“Oh. Sorry, Kate.” John looked at Irene’s assistant.

Kate folded her arms across her chest, “But seriously, are you coming in? Because otherwise ... ”

“Um ... ” John looked at Sherlock.

“You have some talking out to do, if I had to guess.” She said as she fetched John’s coat and a lead and harness for Bréagha.

“Just ... just a bit of it, yeah.” John looked at Sherlock and took a deep breath. Oh were there ever things they needed to talk about.

“Remember, honesty is always the best policy.”

“Yeah, tell _that_ to the criminals who try to talk their way out of a prison sentence.” He rolled his eyes and shrugged into his coat before harnessing Bréagha for a bit of walking. Sherlock snorted but said nothing.

“Well, you two take all the time you need. You’ve got your key, John?”

“Yes, and my wallet and my phone.” John shook his head. “If she asks, just tell her I took Bréagha out for a walk.”

“She’s not stupid, John.” Kate gave him a stern look.

“Then tell her whatever you want. It’s not exactly like Sherlock coming back from the dead is going to surprise her, is it?”

“Cheeky bastard.” She looked at John, “Shoo, and don’t come back until you’ve talked it all out.” After making sure they didn’t need anything else, Kate went back inside, closing the door behind her firmly.

“Did you just get kicked out of your own house?” Sherlock asked curiously as they set off into the familiar streets of London together, keeping to John’s left.

“That’s Kate for you.” He chuckled, tugging on the lead-line a bit as Bréagha got too far ahead of them. “If you ever thought I was bad about your moods.”

“Has it been that bad?”

“Every now and then I’ll get in a rut. Kate’s solution is usually to throw me out of the house and lock the door on me until I come to my senses.”

“That’s what _you_ used to do to me when I got bad enough.”

“I know.” He smiled, “I’ll hole up with Greg for a couple of days when that happens, or I’ll go down to Tiverton and stay with Pen and Hannah.”

“And on the days you _don’t_ get locked out of your own house?”

“Irene puts me back to rights.”

“I wonder what she knows that the rest of us don’t,” Sherlock muttered, getting a curious sniff from Bréagha as she came back to check on John, who set the pace for the outing a bit slower than usual.

“See? I’m not so bad.” He smiled and held out one hand, “I’m a friend, I promise.” She decided he wasn’t all that bad and demanded a bit of a fuss from the lanky detective John had lived with for a year. Sherlock was happy to oblige and John was reminded once again that fondness for dogs was a mutual family affair. Whenever he visited, not always to see Irene on that particular business, Mycroft was always sure to dote on Bréagha.

They walked from Eaton Square to a Costa Coffee up near Victoria Street where they stopped to get something to drink, and regrouped just outside.

“So, now where do we go?” Sherlock asked, taking a sip of his coffee with Bréagha’s lead in one hand.

“Well, do you feel up to more walking?”

“I can walk for miles, you’re the unknown element.”

“Oi!”

“John, for God’s sake, your _limp_ came back.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Oh, shut up. Pick a direction or I will.”

“Mm. East.”

“Fine. Let’s go.” John shook his head and they set off along Victoria Street.

 

They walked down Victoria and ended up at Christchurch Gardens. From there, they could see The Met. Sitting on the low wall that ran the perimeter of the green space, they watched the comings and goings of the city. Bréagha lay on the concrete, tucked under their feet and behind their legs, watching the steady stream of pedestrians and traffic pass them by.

 

“John?” Sherlock’s voice broke into his concentration after a while and he looked up a bit. “You’re…dating Irene Adler, aren’t you?”

“We’re engaged, actually, but I think you knew that. We’ve been together since 2012, right after I got out of jail.” He looked across the street at The Met, “Did Mycroft tell you what they pulled me in for?”

“No, he just told me you had been arrested, I was afraid it had something to do with Moriarty, with what I was doing.”

“Nope. Not even close. They pulled me in for public mischief, vandalism, and trespassing.”

“Doing what?”                                                       

“Writing graffiti on the walls of abandoned warehouses. Caught me down in Lambeth one night, should have seen the look on the arresting officers’ faces when they recognized me.”

“John Watson, you’re ridiculous.”

“Oh, it gets better. I was putting up tags that read “I Believe In Sherlock Holmes” and “Sherlock Holmes Was Real” with smiley-faces wherever there was empty wall-space.”

“You proper vandal. John, I’m shocked.”

“By what? The fact that I have no problem breaking the law when it suits me, which is no news to either of us, or the fact that I’m in a serious romantic relationship with The Woman?”

“Hm.” Sherlock frowned and took another sip of coffee. “You know, actually, neither of those things does surprise me. It should be considered inevitable.”

“Sherlock?” John thought of something and narrowed his eyes.

“Yes, John?”

“New Year's Eve. At The Landmark?” He remembered their unusual server. “Was...was that you? Or was I imagining it again?”

“No. You weren’t. But how did you know it was me?”

“I’m not a complete idiot. The way you behaved, the way you spoke. The questions you answered.” He smiled, “I was right?”

“You didn’t say anything, I didn’t know if you had...”

“I wanted to.” He sighed. “But knowing what little I did of the situation that led to ... well, to what happened in 2011, I figured there was a good reason you hadn’t said anything yet.”

“I’m sorry, John. Please don’t be angry with me.”

“Why would I be angry? I thought you were dead, I was heartbroken, but I am not angry. If I need to be angry, I’ll be angry later.”

“I begged Mycroft to let me tell you, but he didn’t let me. He didn’t think you should know.”

“Probably didn’t want to get my hopes up if something went badly and you ended up dead.” He sighed and looked up at Sherlock, “Where were you?”

“Somewhere in … Serbia.”

“Did he get you out of there?”

“Barely in time. They were going to kill me, John. And then they were going to find you and kill you, too.”

“With the kind of resources Moriarty’s people had? I can believe it.”

“They had an operative here in London, someone who got close to you. They were going to use her to … to … oh, god,” Sherlock’s eyes were wide and panicked as he thought of something, “John, you’re still in danger!”

“Who was left of the network when you were pulled out of Serbia?” He had a bloody good idea who that “operative” might be. And if he was right, she was quite dead. “I can get that answer myself if you don’t remember.”

“Just … Moran.”

“And you have no record of Moran being eliminated?”

“No. We couldn’t find them.”

“Right. Of course not, but not for lack of searching.” John reached down to pet Bréagha. “You lucky bastard.”

“Your lucky bastard?”

“Better be my lucky bastard. Don’t run off without me anymore, alright?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s smile was hesitant but true, that crooked little grin he only really showed John. As if by magic, his phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it.

“Oh, look at that. It’s your brother.” He swiped into the call without hesitation.

_“Mycroft? I have Sherlock. He’s safe with me.”_

_"You are both in grave danger, Doctor Watson. My brother was foolish to seek you out before we managed to compromise Moriarty’s last operative.”_

_“I think I know exactly who it was, Mycroft. It’s fine.”_

_“I am on my way to you now. We are taking no chances.”_

_“Mycroft?”_

_“Yes, Doctor Watson?”_

_“I’m going to ask you a question and I expect a direct answer.”_

_“Yes, Doctor Watson.”_

_“Have you departed from your location yet?”_

_“No, Doctor Watson.”_

_“Fine, because I’d hate for you to waste anyone’s time or misuse police assets.”_ He looked over at Sherlock, _“What is the name of the last operative?”_

_“Moran. Sebastian Moran. But we believe she was operating under an alias.”_

_“Do you have a name?”_

_“Vincent. Or Morstan.”_ Mycroft sounded hesitant to talk to him about this and John frowned. How the bleeding hell had it been two weeks and Mycroft still didn’t know Vincent nee Morstan was dead as of Christmas Eve? Jesus.

_“Let me guess. Rosamund Vincent and Mary Morstan?”_

_“Yes. Have you...heard those names before?”_

_“Mycroft Holmes, you moron.”_ He sighed and pressed one hand over his eyes, _“I dated Mary Morstan for three months before last Christmas! We broke up on the 20 th of December, four days before I joined The Met on an extraction exercise to rescue a little girl who had gone missing two weeks prior. I lived with Lestrade for most of that time, if you recall.”_

“ _Oh.”_ The moment of clarity, John could just see Greg rolling his eyes. _“Oh, Doctor Watson. I am so sorry. I had no idea.”_

“It’s been two weeks, Mycroft, how the bleeding hell didn’t you know Vincent was dead in a police standoff on Christmas Eve?” John looked over at Sherlock, who had listened to his side of the conversation with great interest.

_“There was no indication she had been eliminated. Her status was moved from active to idle, I just assumed it meant she had gone to ground again.”_

_“For being one of the smartest men in the country, you are surprisingly unobservant,”_ John said calmly, knowing he could get away with it. Sherlock broke into a wide smile to hear someone else ragging on his brother. _“Next time you have a sensitive job of national security’s interests, feel free to ask me if I know anything before assuming. I have just as many contacts in the community as you do.”_

_“I am sorry that we weren’t more vigilant.”_

_“It’s fine, Mycroft. Where are you right now?”_

_“I am with Lestrade. Why?”_

_“Ask him for the reports on the incident. And if you need further proof, go talk to Molly Hooper.”_ He scuffed at the pavement with his shoe, _“I think she still has the body, you can make your own identification if you’d like.”_

 _“Oh. I...think I will. Thank you, Doctor Watson.”_ As if John needed to give him an excuse to go visit Molly. He knew Mycroft practically spoiled that girl, sent her flowers at work and had lunch delivered so she wouldn’t forget to feed herself.

 _“No problem.”_ Hanging up on Mycroft, he looked at Sherlock, who just smiled at him. His phone had buzzed several times and he hadn’t bothered to check for messages, but he did now. There were several from Irene.

**I miss you, my dear. I miss your stable mind rn. – IWA**

**I’m reminded why I despise people with more money than common sense. – IWA**

**Uh oh. Who was it this time, love? – JWA**

There were a few clients John knew of who brought out his companion’s tetchy side like this. Most of them were people who ran in Mycroft’s social circles. Hell, he knew Mycroft _was_ one of Irene’s clients! Which had been as much of a surprise to John as it had been to Mycroft to realize they both knew Irene and both had intimate relations of sorts with her.

“John?”

“I thought I was having a bad day.” He chuckled and pocketed his phone.

“Client?”

“There’s a few she has that put her in a bit of a bad mood.” He shrugged, “She’ll never take it out on me, though, unless I ask her to.”

“That’s brave of you.”

“No worse than the times I let _you_ take out your frustrations on me, is it?”

“No, I suppose not.” That got him a smile. Sherlock stepped into John’s space, crowding him until they were just about breathing the same air.

“I hope I can get away with this?”

“I doubt she’s going to mind if I tell her you’re the only other person I’ve actually kissed today.”

“May I?”

“Absolutely.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock leaned down just that bit necessary to make contact. It was a first kiss, a “thank god you’re here” kiss, an “I missed you so much it hurts” kiss, but John didn’t think it was a last kiss or a “goodbye, my love” kiss. It didn’t feel like that. And yes, he knew what that felt like, ta much. Especially where Sherlock was concerned. John reached for...something, fingers closing around fabric and gripping tight, as if afraid Sherlock would suddenly disappear on him.

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

“Come to Baker Street when you need a place to go, John. I always need my blogger.” Sherlock breathed, one hand against John’s jaw, “I’ve missed you awfully.”

“We’ve…missed each other, I think. If I come back to Baker Street, Irene comes with me.”

“She can come with you.”

“But we can’t…she can’t…”

“We’ll work it out.” Sherlock pulled away and looked across the street, “Come on. Let’s get you back to your fiancée.” John chuckled and took Bréagha’s lead from Sherlock as they set off. It was quiet as they walked, but it was a pleasant quiet, a familiar one. At one point, Sherlock took Bréagha’s lead back and took John’s hand in his. He might be engaged, but Sherlock was allowed to do this. He had come first, and Irene had known that for as long as she and John had been together, and she had never, _ever_ tried to replace Sherlock.

 

***

 

When they got back to Eaton Square, John realized they had outstayed the precise length of the Prime Minister’s visit. _He_ had been the client in question, which explained Irene’s mood. John had suspected, confirmation was always nice to have. The look on Sherlock’s face as they stood aside to let him leave was priceless.

“My god, was _that_...?”

“Yep.”

“You have to be kidding me.”

“Nope.” He chuckled and headed up the steps to the house, “Come along!”

“She sees the Prime Minister!”

“More like the Prime Minister sees _her_.” He held the door for Sherlock, who stepped into the house. Kate was there to take their coats.

“How is she, Kate?”

“The PM thought he knew better and thought he could boss Miss Adler around.”

“Ooh. On her own turf?”

“Mhm.”

“Oh god, the poor thing.” John shuddered. “No wonder she sent me those texts!”

“She never takes it out on you, you know.” Kate looked at Sherlock and smiled, “She’ll be delighted to see you. You can go upstairs if you want, she’ll join you shortly.”

“Ta, Kate.” John removed Bréagha’s lead and harness and gave them to Kate before heading upstairs with Sherlock in tow. As they were getting settled in the primary sitting room, Rosemary brought them tea and some Franzbrötchen.

“Thank you so much, Rosemary.” John smiled at the kind woman. After making sure they didn’t need anything else, Rosemary left, closing the door behind her firmly.

“Who was that?”

“That’s Rosemary, she’s our housekeeper.” John looked across at Sherlock, “She’s quite a bit like Mrs Hudson, actually, so it’s almost like I never left Baker Street.”

“Where is she _from_? Her accent is a bit unusual.”

“Germany. Her mother’s family is originally from Bolivia, but that’s quite a bit distant on the family tree.”

“Ah. That explains the pastries.” Sherlock picked one out for himself and John just smiled.

“Are those cold cases?” He asked, having noticed case-files stacked on the couch next to John.

“Mhm. I’ve got loads of ‘em, couple boxes full that Greg brought me.” He smiled without looking, “Want a few?”

“Can I? I’ve been so ...  _bored_ lately.” Only Sherlock Holmes could make “bored” sound like a profanity.

“Help yourself.” He nudged at the box by his foot. Sherlock retrieved the box and retreated to his chosen seat.

 

Once they had settled themselves, John in one chair and Sherlock in another with boxes of case-files open between them, it was quiet. Not silent, just ... quiet. It was a familiar quiet that came from working cases side-by-side with Sherlock, and John had kind of missed it. He had _really_ missed it, to be honest.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice broke into his concentration after a while and he looked up a bit.

“Yeah?”

“Are those…wh-what are those?” Sherlock had caught sight of the red bracelet abrasions on his wrists. They were quite new, still rather sore, but easily concealed by clothing. He smiled and went back to what he was doing.

“What do you think they are?”

“They look like bracelet abrasions, from handcuffs. But you haven’t been arrested since 2012, where did you get those?” Sherlock tilted his head, “Those are quite new. Do they hurt?”

“No.” He shook his head, “We’ve used handcuffs before, Sherlock.”

“Using restraints like those requires a certain amount of trust in the dominant partner, I suspect you do not switch with Irene like you and I did when we were together.”

“No, I do not switch with Irene. I wouldn’t want to, it’s a rather different dynamic between us. Similar but at the same time a bit different.”

“I’m glad you found Irene, she seems to have been just what you needed.”

“For what it’s worth, she found me.”

“Semantics. Same difference.” He got a dismissive wave for that. “You found each other.”

“Does this mean we have your blessing? You won’t sabotage my date-nights anymore?”

“Well, I can’t promise I won’t crash a date-night on occasion, but not out of spite.”

“You respect her enough to treat this relationship quite differently.” John was impressed, that was very mature of his old flatmate.

“You’re obviously quite happy with her, and I suspect she is just as jealous as I ever was, so I don’t need to worry about you straying off after the next passably attractive woman on the street or trying to hit on the cute barista at the coffee-shop.”

“Nope.”

“She was very trusting that you would come back to her when a relationship crashed. I wonder if you didn’t sabotage your own relationships for her sake?”

“I sabotaged relationships for your sake, idiot, of course I sabotaged them for hers! Wouldn’t you?”

“Absolutely! Without wasting breath for the words or a minute to consider the consequences!” Sherlock looked at him, really looked at him, “I am happy you found someone who can fulfil your needs when I wasn’t able to, someone who honestly deserves you and can…well, can handle you.”

“And I take some special handling, don’t I?”

“A bit.” Sherlock smiled. “You are still the sassiest submissive I ever worked with. How does Irene handle that?”

“About the same as you did. She’s not afraid to beat some sense into me when I need it.”

“Hmm. Good.” Sherlock seemed satisfied that Irene wasn’t letting John off the hook when he was being unreasonable, as happened occasionally.

It was only quiet for a short while longer before Irene showed herself and as soon as she did, John knew it was bad. Not bad enough he would ask her to work it out on him, but still bad.

“Hello, boys.”

“Hello, Miss Adler.”

“Sherlock, good to see you, my dear.” As if she wasn’t at all phased by the sight of Sherlock Holmes in her sitting-room doing cold-case work with John. But really, she _wasn’t_. She and John had agreed that night at The Landmark that Sherlock was alive and when he was ready to reveal himself to them, he would. Well, today was that day.

“Likewise, Irene.” Sherlock looked up at her, deducing her and making conclusions based on the evidence before him. “Have a hard time with your last client, did you?”

“I’m _very_ tempted to give that man a hard lesson in humility, but short of asking your brother for a favour, I’ve got nothing.”

“Irene, don’t you have pictures?” John had to ask, he was almost one-hundred per cent certain Irene did have incriminating photographic evidence they could use against the Prime Minister.

“If you _don’t_ , which I find rather unlikely, we could easily procure some for you.” Sherlock was thinking on his feet now, plotting the downfall of a top political figure.

“And doctoring pictures isn’t that difficult.” John twirled his biro between his fingers. “If you know what you’re doing, anything is possible with a few hours and some good editing software.”

“No, that’s too obvious. I don’t have nearly enough to cause any real trouble.” Irene paced the sitting room for a while, thinking things over. While she did, John and Sherlock went back to what they were doing. After a while, he saw her body-language shift. When she turned to them again, her expression was ... predatory.

“Gentlemen, I have a special job for The Sherlock Holmes Detective Agency.” Sherlock and John looked at each other and then at Irene.

“How can we help, Miss Adler?”

“This job requires a certain amount of stealth and carefulness.” 

“I should think we could manage that. What did you have in mind?” Sherlock studied Irene the way he studied all clients who interested him enough to take their cases.

“I need you to get hold of the Prime Minister’s daily schedule and track his every move. Where he goes, when he goes, who he’s with. He has a mistress, get evidence of them together.” She laid out the terms of her employment, effectively giving Sherlock his first case since his return from the dead. He hadn’t formally come back, not yet. That was probably going to be a mark in their favour, if John knew anything about how his fiancée’s mind worked. John knew they would be taking this case, no questions asked.

“What on earth did he say to you, Irene?” John was not unfamiliar with his fiancée’s moods, but this was worse than usual.

“He saw the ring.” She cradled her left hand as if protecting the ring itself, “He...”

“Irene, what did he _say_? Whatever it was, it’s clearly upset you.”

“He said he felt sorry for the man who was stupid enough to propose to me, he must not have any self-respect. Whoever wanted to marry the likes of me must be very desperate, must want something from me.”

“I love you, Irene, and everything that makes you the woman you are.” John got up and went to Irene, taking her hands in his, “I do not regret asking you to marry me, ever. I am not ashamed of what you do at all.”

“I don’t deserve you, John.”

“You know, Sherlock said the same thing to me on more than one occasion. I always told him he was full of shite.” He smiled and touched the side of her face, “The things Cameron said to you were an insult to us both, and if I know anything about that man, he knew what he was saying and knew it was hurtful.”

“Not just hurtful, it was disrespectful.” Sherlock had gotten to his feet, “This is something that affects John as well, and I will not stand for anyone to slander his name. I don’t care about my own reputation, but no one...”

“You’ve never liked when people ragged me, have you?”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “I won’t ask you to take this case with me, John, but I won’t stop you from joining me. I always need my blogger.”

“What makes you think you’re going anywhere without me? The last time I left you to your own devices, you faked your own death and disappeared for three years.” John turned to Irene as Sherlock collected the solved cases and put them in the box set aside for the purpose, “Don’t worry, Cameron won’t get away with insulting your profession the way he did.”

“I don’t deserve someone like you, John Watson.”

“And I don’t deserve someone like you, and yet here we are.” He smiled, “I have a future to plan for, don’t I?”

“I suppose you do. Go do your work, I’ll see you tonight.”

“I’ll call if something comes up.” John hugged her and gave her a kiss, “We’ll work this out, love, I promise.”

 

Going downstairs, they collected their coats and prepared to leave the house.

“Sherlock!” Irene called from the porch as they got a taxi.

“Yes, Miss Adler?”

“Keep him in trouble for me, will you?”

“I’ll do my best, Miss Adler! He’s in good hands!” Sherlock smiled at Irene and got into the taxi. John blew Irene a kiss and followed Sherlock.

“So, where do we even start a job like this?” John asked once they were underway.

“First, we visit my brother.” Sherlock was doing something on his phone, “He should be returned to his office by now.”

“And if he’s not?”

“Then we’ll go find him. We need him for this.”

“Yes, I suppose we do, don’t we?” John sighed and prepared himself for what promised to be an interesting job. This would have to be done carefully and done right, Irene was trusting them to do this discretely and quickly. And John would make sure they didn’t disappoint her.

* * *

* * *

 


	16. Code Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Baker Street Boys get in a bit of case-work and John decides Sherlock deserves to be happy. And he thinks he knows just what needs to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one. John and Irene have plans to bring Greg and Sherlock together. The next chapter is going to be Sherstrade-heavy.

* * *

* * *

After accepting the job for Irene, Sherlock and John spent two weeks collecting evidence and stalking the Prime Minister. Mycroft was a huge help in that department, giving them copies of everything from Cameron’s daily schedule with the names, times, and places of each meeting, but also the rotas for everyone assigned protection duty on Downing Street. They didn’t ask Greg for that because they were keeping him in the dark about Sherlock being back, just for the moment. By the end of the second week, they had plenty of material and all the evidence they needed to ruin Cameron’s reputation. He didn’t just have a mistress, he had three mistresses, and he was also making a few very shady under-the-table deals with some questionable entities.

 

They took their evidence to Irene, who sent them next to Mycroft, he was the next person with the most clout that mattered. It wasn’t long before word leaked out about the Prime Minister’s indiscretions, starting with the tabloid rags, which were provided with plenty of photographic evidence for their stories thanks to the hard work of John and Sherlock. The day after the first spreads were published, John sent a text to Irene that read “Lazarus is go. Talk to G. Lestrade.” A second text message read “Baker Street. Come at once. Danger Night. Help me. – JWA”. The second message was sent to Greg as well, part of a plan to reunite Sherlock and Greg.

 

While they had been on their intel-gathering recon, John had talked to Sherlock about their future as partners (once Sherlock was back from the dead, John would be more than happy to start taking cases with him again), how their relationship would change as a result of his engagement (John didn’t see things changing that much, he had written into the contract that Irene was not his sole dominant and he was allowed to go to Sherlock if he felt the need), and Sherlock’s personal happiness. It was clear he had missed John and was saddened by the loss of John’s company in his life (which was a motive for John to take moving back to Baker Street into serious consideration), but he acknowledged that John had a right to chose his life-partners and if that partner wasn’t Sherlock then he would do his best to accept John’s choice and be supportive. But he respected Irene Adler the way he respected very few people, she was one of a small handful of people to outwit him and beat him at his own game; and not only had she outwitted him, she had stepped in on John’s behalf once Sherlock was no longer in his life and offered him shelter, affection, and guidance. Things John had needed so desperately and hadn’t had after Sherlock had jumped from Saint Bart’s. But even John knew it wasn’t right, wasn’t _fair_ , for Sherlock to be alone when he had a partner. And he knew about Sherlock and Greg’s history, asking Sherlock had gotten him that whole long story one night during a stake-out on the residence of Cameron’s first mistress.

 

He knew that Sherlock didn’t love carelessly or easily, had noticed the way Sherlock behaved around Greg. It was always slightly different than the way he treated almost everyone else aside from John. He was nicer to Greg, in private when it was just the three of them he was almost...sweet with the DI, and he only really belittled Greg if he had good cause to. Greg’s team was fair game for snide comments, but he tended to take it easy on Greg. So, he and Irene put their heads together and decided to bring Sherlock and Greg back together. It was obvious it wasn’t one-sided, John had caught Greg giving Sherlock adoring looks when the boffin was rattling off his deductions rapid-fire and being intelligent. He’d even caught a few private moments but had never said anything if he actually walked in on a kiss or the like. He had too much respect for them to make a big deal out of it, so he just didn’t.

 

“Did you send the message?” Sherlock asked, pulling him out of his reflections. He glanced out the window of Baker Street before he turned to look at Sherlock, who lay sprawled on the couch as if he’d never left the place. The Evidence Wall was plastered with printouts and photographs from their work on the Prime Minister’s extramarital habits and covert meetings.

“Yep. Just now.” He tossed his phone to Sherlock, who glanced at the message-string and held it out again once he was satisfied. “He has no idea, you realize that?”

“And yet, all you have to do is say “Danger Night” and he comes running?” An eyebrow went up and John sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He hadn’t told Sherlock about his stunt on the Saint Bart’s rooftop.

“Yeah, there’s ... there’s a bloody good reason he does, too.” He went to his chair and sat down, looking at the carpet between his shoes. “I wasn’t ... there’ve been times over the two years you were gone, Sherlock, where I’ve been in really bad places mentally. I, um, I ... ”

“John, what did you do? Or, rather, what did you stop yourself from doing?”

“I, um, cried a lot at first. Cried myself hoarse and sick a few times, actually. Drank enough I blacked out and woke up with no memory of the night before and the worst hangover ever, more than once. I think your brother has cameras in the place, I walked out one night and didn’t come back for a week, by the time I got back there wasn’t a single knife or sharp object in the house and two days after that my gun went missing.”

“My brother stole your gun?”

“Greg, um, he ... he found me sitting in your chair one night with my gun ... ”

“John!”

“Yeah. Mrs Hudson called him to come get me. That’s ... when I went down to Tiverton and lived with Pen and Hannah for a year. They put me to work with Nowzad Dogs and kept me busy that way. I spent ... Christ, Sherlock, I spent six months back in Afghanistan. Actually ended up staying almost a whole year there, just because I didn’t want to come home to London.”

“But that’s not why he’ll come to a “Danger Night” text from you, is it?”

“No. No, it’s not.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and went back through archived messages. He had made absolutely certain to save that one message and had gotten audio of the phone-call between himself and Greg that day. It turned out Mycroft had bugged his phone after the funeral and caught the whole thing on audio. When he had approached Greg about it, Greg had warned him off and told him not to intervene, he knew John wouldn’t be at all happy to see him. John had gotten the audio from Greg later.

“John?”

“Um ... here. You ... you should listen to this.” He held out his phone after pulling up the audio, “Your brother got that from my phone. D-don’t put it...please don’t put it on speaker.”

“What is it?”

“Just ... listen. Please. But first, read that text.” He stepped back from the couch and went to the kitchen.

 

It was quiet for about six minutes before he heard any movement. He had closed the door to the sitting-room, had his back to the door when he heard it slide open.

“John Watson, you are an idiot.”

“I know. But you have to understand, I thought you were dead. That was two years ago, I had no idea you were alive.”

“Do not _ever_ assume there is nothing left for you to live for, Captain Watson. Ever. Do you understand me?” John hadn’t heard that tone of voice in what felt like forever. He was on alert in a heartbeat.

“Yes, Holmes.”

“You’re well trained, I see. I will thank Miss Adler for keeping your obedience up to par.”

“I do try, Holmes.”

“Turn around.” He turned on his heel. Sherlock stood behind him, framed by the half-open door, John’s phone clutched in one hand, his expression best described as pure agony. John would be damned if Sherlock wasn’t crying. That was his fault. He knew it was his fault, and he hated that.

“You do not belong to me anymore, but are you still free to take orders from me, Captain?”

“Yes, Holmes. I...wrote it into my contract with Miss Adler.”

“Good. Go out to the sitting-room and stand by my chair, facing the door. Wait for my orders.”

“Yes, Holmes.”

“Go.” John slipped out of the kitchen and went to kneel by Sherlock’s grey chair.

“May I use a cushion, Holmes?”

“Yes, Captain. I won’t cause you unnecessary discomfort.” Sherlock sounded a bit more distant and John realized he had moved out of the kitchen. Finding the kneeling-cushion, John settled to wait, remaining on his feet until told to kneel. Sherlock came out a few minutes later with a small box in one hand and nodded when he saw John waiting by the chair.

“Good boy. Take off your jumper and shirt, fold them on the coffee table, and kneel.”

“Yes, Holmes.” John did exactly as he was told, and waited.

“Give me your hands, Captain.”

“Yes, Holmes.” He looked up at Sherlock standing in front of him and marvelled as always at how _tall_ he looked from here. Sherlock had a pair of handcuffs, probably stolen from Greg, these were for John. One bracelet at a time, they were locked in place, tight enough to remind him but loose enough they wouldn’t leave much of a mark on him.

“Now, you will stay there until Miss Adler and Inspector Lestrade arrive, do not speak or move. If you think you may get uncomfortable during your wait, find a comfortable position now.”

“Yes, Holmes.” John bowed his head and shifted a bit so his stance was a bit wider.

“You will tell me if your shoulder or your knee begins to give you trouble, do you understand?”

“Yes, Holmes.”

“Good, now be silent.”

“Yes, Holmes.” John sighed and settled in to wait for Irene and Greg. In his head, he started a timer for forty-five minutes, accounting for traffic and the time it would take to get from Eaton Square to The Met and from The Met to Baker Street.

 

The future would unfold at Baker Street, how was uncertain, but they could hope for the best. If anyone deserved to be happy, it was Sherlock Holmes. John had once been the key to his happiness, but now it was time to hand the keys to another man who had been there before John and had continued to be there even after he was part of Sherlock’s life. He and Greg were good friends, had gone drinking together and shared grievances about Sherlock’s ways while he’d been alive, done the same after his “death” and mourned his loss. But now he was back. John wanted Sherlock to be happy, and he wanted Greg to have someone who understood him and respected him and could take care of him. That was Sherlock. And Greg understood and respected Sherlock and could take care of him in turn. That was more than John could ask for.

* * *

* * *

 


	17. Same Old Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade gets a visit at work from Irene Adler, and a familiar, disturbing text-message from John Watson. The significance of 29 January does not escape him and he goes into action. But 221B Baker Street has a secret for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherstrade reunion ahoy! That's the sole purpose of this chapter! Please enjoy!

* * *

* * *

While John Watsonn knelt in contrite obedience at Baker Street, Greg Lestrade was in his office, completely unaware of anything that was about to turn his whole life upside-down. He knew there was trouble brewing when he heard a bit of a commotion outside his office, but before he could get up to go investigate and possibly give the new constables a harsh scolding about proper workplace behaviours, his door crashed open. It wasn’t so much the noise as the person behind it that startled him.

“Oh my god.” He looked up at the woman standing just inside his office. He could see Sally Donovan right behind her, one hand on her shoulder, holding her back.

“Miss Adler, you can’t just barge in without some kind of warning, Inspector Lestrade is _very_ busy right now! As you can see! Please, ma’am, come with me.”

“Irene?” Greg studied the usually calm, put-together woman John had turned to after losing Sherlock. Something was wrong.

“Greg! Thank god! Isn’t your phone on?”

“I put it on vibrate, I’ve been eyeballs deep in back-log all day. Why?”

“I think John’s in trouble!”

“What?” He felt a stab of something hot in his chest as he reached for his phone. He read the new message and felt a little sick. He’d gotten this same exact message, almost verbatim, two years ago when John Watson had suffered a dissociative episode on the roof of Saint Bart’s Hospital shortly before he made the decision to move into Irene Adler’s Eaton Square residence.

 

**Baker Street. Come at once. Danger Night. Help me. – JWA**

“Oh, shit.”

“What can we _do_?”

“Sir?”

“Donovan, I’m stepping out of the office. If anyone asks, it’s personal.” Greg knew better than to call John, and three cars would be overkill. Instead, he grabbed his badge, wallet, and gun, and shoved to his feet.

“Where are you going, sir?”

“Baker Street.” He shrugged into his coat and looked at Irene, “You’re driving in with me, I sure hope you told Kate to scram.”

“She’ll be on standby.”

“Come on. Donovan, not a word.”

“Baker Street, sir?” Donovan frowned, “Is...John’s alright, isn’t he?”

“He may not be.”

“Then I’m coming with you!” Greg didn’t have the heart to stop her. John was her friend, and if anything happened to him, he knew Donovan would never forgive him if she found out second-hand. If it was really serious, she might be useful for talking John out of whatever funk he’d gotten into.

“Today, of _all_ days!”

“Today marks the fourth anniversary of the day John and Sherlock started living together at Baker Street, their very first case together,” Irene said quietly as they rushed from the office.

“Which explains why he went back to Baker Street.” Greg fumbled his keys, but Irene retrieved them mid-fall. “Ta. Christ, I hope we’re not too late.”

“I don’t think we will be. I called Mrs Hudson to go and check on him for me, keep him from doing anything rash until I could get help.”

“Thanks for that.” Greg huffed and got into his car, a silver Mercedes-Benz M-class SUV. Irene buckled in as he started the ignition. He switched on his lights but decided against sirens this once. With Donovan behind him with her marked IRV, he set off for Baker Street.

 

When they arrived, Greg parked out front of Baker Street and got out, his gun in hand.

“Y’know, last time I was here for this, I found John sitting in Sherlock’s chair with his gun in his mouth. God, I hope he hasn’t done that again.”

“John doesn’t need our fear, Inspector, he needs our support.” Irene put one hand on his arm, that specific tone in her voice and Greg took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Jesus, she was good. The only other person he’d ever met who could get to him like that was Sherlock. When John had moved into Baker Street, Greg had taken a step back and watched those two get closer and dance around each other, fall in love and fight like an old married couple. But Sherlock had been there for Greg through so much, and when his wife had handed over divorce papers, Greg had taken them to Mycroft and then gone to Sherlock, who had put him back to rights and kept him over for a few days. John had wandered off somewhere, Greg had never really asked, assuming he had somewhere else to go. That had been well before Irene, so...where had he gone? Never mind, he couldn’t afford to think of Sherlock right now, John needed him.

 

Knocking on the door, they waited a little too long, so he tried again. Mrs Hudson opened the door for them, didn’t seem terribly surprised to see them.

“Sorry about this, Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh, it’s ... fine, Greg, dear. Could be much worse, I suppose.”

“Where is he?”

“Upstairs. I think you’d ... better go up there.” She looked up the stairs, holding a handkerchief to her face, “Oh, the poor thing!”

“If I have to talk that boy down from another stupid ... ” Greg trailed off and headed upstairs. “Ta, Mrs Hudson.”

“Do be gentle with him, will you please? It’s been a hard time for him!”

“He always gets a little moodier than usual around this time, doesn’t he?” Irene whispered.

“Can’t say I blame the kid. His whole life kind of fell apart in 2011.”

“So did yours, Greg.” Irene had her hand on his shoulder.

“What, is it written on my forehead or something?” Greg looked over his shoulder at her and saw a soft, sympathetic smile.

“I just know what it looks like. You picked a good man.”

“Great man, good man, the biggest pain in the arse I’ve ever met. Wouldn’t give him up for all the gold in Fort Knox.” He got to the top step and paused. “I’d give anything to have him back, though.”

“Hey, boss, want me to wait down here?” Donovan called from the landing. Greg looked down at her and nodded.

“Yeah, Donovan. Just ... just for now. I’ll holler if I need you.”

“Alright.” So, leaving Donovan and Mrs Hudson on the landing, Greg put his hand on the doorknob. After announcing himself, he pushed the door open. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find inside, John sitting in Sherlock’s chair with his gun in his mouth again seemed likely – but the sight of John kneeling by the chair in question, naked from the waist up, wearing a pair of suspiciously-familiar handcuffs, was _not_ it.

“John!” He breathed out, relieved that John seemed relatively unharmed at first glance, “Jesus Christ, I got your text. Are you okay, mate?”

“I’m fine, Inspector.” John raised his head a little bit. “Thank you for ... minimizing your presence on Baker Street this time.”

“Yeah, three cars last time was a bit overkill, I guess, wasn’t it?”

“A bit overkill, but reasonable considering the text I sent you that day.” John shifted a little bit, “Did Donovan come with you?”

“Y-yeah. She’s...out on the landing.” Something about John’s behaviour was a little ... off. Greg couldn’t put a finger on precisely what, but there was just something that didn’t seem quite right about what he was seeing. “Are you sure you’re alright, mate? You don’t seem ... ”

“He’s _fine_ , Inspector Lestrade. He’s simply taking a bit of punishment for being thoughtless.” Greg recognized the voice behind him right away and got stuck between the instinct to kneel and the instinct to lash out.

“Ooh, you _bastard_.” He growled even as a hand as familiar to him as his own pried the gun out of his fingers. He got his first look at a very much alive Sherlock Holmes as the man stepped past him and put his gun on the coffee table, where he saw John’s already laid out. He looked ... healthy. Skinnier than last Greg had seen him, but ... healthy. Greg thought he saw new streaks of silver in his hair.

“Sherlock.”

“Hello, Greg.”

“Oh, you mad bastard! You _do_ know my name! I always knew you did!” he glared at the smiling, confident man in front of him, “Don’t you _dare_ smile at me like that! I thought something had gone wrong with John, you idiot!”

“Well, how else was I supposed to reveal myself to you? Would you rather I had done it in a public place?” An eyebrow went up, those strangely opalescent eyes sparkled, “Or in your office at The Met, perhaps? No, no, this is better.”

“That’s a lot of trouble and grief you put a whole lot of good people through, Sherlock!”

“I know. And I’m very, _very_ sorry. I know that I hurt you and John both very thoughtlessly. I thought you would understand, but that was my fault for assuming anything of two of the bravest, wisest men I’ve ever known.”

“You can’t assume we’re mind-readers, you have to _talk_ to us if you want us to understand anything, Sherlock.”

“I know, and I didn’t. But if I had, you might be dead now. I might be dead now. I should be, but I’m not.” Sherlock approached him carefully, one hand outstretched as though to calm a frightened animal. “I am not going to hurt you, Inspector Lestrade, not now or ever again if I can help it. I want you to trust that I will always have your best interests in mind, even if I can’t always show you. Please, please believe me.”

“You ... were _dead_. I saw your body. I had to identify your body.”

“I know. But ... that wasn’t me. By the time you and John identified me for Molly Hooper, I was already halfway to my first assignment.”

“Oh, my god. Are you ... ?” Greg thought me might be hallucinating, but something told him this was all very much real. “You’re ... ”

“I’m very much alive. I’d rather like to stay that way if you don’t mind, so if you could possibly see your way to refraining from putting me in my grave, I would be grateful.”

“You impossible bastard!”

“Your impossible bastard?”

“Git.” Greg wanted to cry, he had already started to. It was completely involuntary and absolutely humiliating. But he was in the company of friends, he was allowed to do this.

“You can cry, Greg.” Sherlock reached out a bit further and made contact, “You’re safe here.” That touch was galvanizing, terrible and liberating.

“Oh, God.” Greg took a step forward, fingers outstretched and closing around ... something. Fabric? His shirt, _that_ shirt. The purple shirt they all loved so much. “Sherlock!”

“I’m so sorry, Greg. I never wanted to hurt you, but I couldn’t ... making any attempt to contact you would have put all of us in danger, I couldn’t live with that.” Sherlock caught him when he staggered. Level ground and he tripped. “Better that I die in your place, and you remain ignorant than any of you be in further danger.”

“That’s the biggest load of self-sacrificing bullshit I’ve ever heard. I would have found some way to bring you back from the dead and killed you properly myself for being such a martyr!” He looked up at Sherlock, “Don’t you _ever_ fucking think of it! Not ever!”

“I don’t think I have to, Greg. You and John actually tied up a few loose ends for me rather nicely last Christmas.”

“Vincent?” He frowned.

“That was an alias for her true identity.”

“Oh, fuck.” Greg groaned and put his head down, bumping into Sherlock’s shoulder, “If you tell me that sly bitch was actually Moran, I’ll dig her corpse out of the ground and burn it!”

“No need to desecrate anyone’s grave, Inspector.” Sherlock’s voice took on that tone, his grip on Greg tightened just so, “Her remains were cremated immediately following Doctor Hooper’s autopsy and promptly disposed of.”

“Okay, that’s ... fine.” Greg sighed. God, he was dizzy.

“Down on your knees, Inspector.” A pressure on his shoulder and down he went. “Take your recovery position and wait.”

“Yes, Sir.” He folded his arms in front of his face and leaned down until his arms touched the floor. It got very quiet, he focused on his breathing and the nearness of Sherlock. There was some soft commotion, but he didn’t dare move. A door closed somewhere and he heard Sherlock move past him.

“I’m not going to leave you.” He said quietly, despite Greg maintaining his silence. “Ah. Good, Donovan’s taken her leave.”

“I sent her away, Mister Holmes.” Irene’s voice was behind him somewhere, “I told her that I would stay here with Captain Watson and Inspector Lestrade until such a time as I felt comfortable removing Captain Watson from the premises.”

“Thank you, Miss Adler.” He couldn’t see, but he knew Sherlock was smiling. “You are free to take Captain Watson home with you, if you would like. I ... have certain obligations to be seen to.”

“Of course, Mister Holmes. Captain, up on your feet.” There was a clatter as the handcuffs were removed and set aside.

“Are we going home, Miss Adler?”

“Yes, we are. Come.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“Inspector Lestrade, you are a very lucky man.” Irene stopped by him and he felt her hand on his back, “Let Mister Holmes take care of you now, trust him.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“Good boy.” A stroke of fingers through his hair, a bit of affection to ground him. Then she was gone again.

“Good luck, Mister Holmes, I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you, Miss Adler, I look forward to it.” There were two sets of footsteps, the door closing, Irene and John bidding Mrs Hudson farewell, another door downstairs, and then ... it was quiet. After a while, a hand rested on the back of his neck.

“Can you sit up now, Inspector?”

“Yes, Sir.” Greg kept his eyes closed as he leaned up and back on his knees.

“Stand up, I will help you.” A hand on his shoulder and he got up, slowly. Opening his eyes, Greg took a deep breath and hoped this wasn’t some misguided nightmare.

“What is it, Greg?”

“God, I’m just ... you’re alive. You’re here. You ... came back to me.” He shook his head, “It was ... awful, Sherlock. My ex-wife, she ... she did ... said hurtful things after you died.”

“Donna Lestrade will never touch you again, cause you any kind of distress. You deserve better than that.” Sherlock smiled and touched Greg, and that was all he needed.

“Please don’t ever leave me again, Sherlock.” He leaned against Sherlock and put both arms around his boffin. “I can’t do it anymore.”

“I won’t leave you, Greg. Stay with me.”

“How?”

“Come to Baker Street, live with me here.”

“But ... ” He frowned, “What about John? And Irene?”

“They will come later. If they come.”

“Oh.”

“For now, come with me. Let me take care of you for a while.”

“Okay.” He just followed when Sherlock headed for the bedroom. It occurred to him that John, Sherlock, Irene, and Mrs Hudson had all been in on the reveal together, but he wasn’t upset with anyone. He couldn’t be. Sherlock was alive, and he had asked Greg to stay with him. That was all he wanted or needed right now.

 

***

 

Sunlight was fading from the windows of 221B Baker Street as Sherlock Holmes sat up in bed, reading emails on a tablet John Watson had gotten him as a birthday present with a cigarette between his lips. Next to him, a glimpse of silver hair was all that was visible of his companion. A stirring from the covers got his attention and he looked over.

“Are you alright, Inspector?”

“Ugh. What’s the day?”

“Same as it was when you got here, dear.” He smiled and reached under the covers, finding the slope of a shoulder. “How’s your head?”

“I feel ... fine, actually.” The covers were shoved back a bit and a pair of hazy, sleepy brown eyes peered up at him, “What’s the time, then?”

“Sun’s going down. Six or so?”

“It feels so much later.”

“That happens. Are you hungry?”

“Starved, but I’m not much a fan of moving.” He got a look for that. Sherlock chuckled and stroked unruly silver hair.

“I never said we had to leave this house. Is there anything, in particular, you’d like? I imagine it’s been quite a while since you ate last.”

“Don’t even get me started.”

“Shall I hazard a guess and surprise you?”

“At this rate, I’m running on too much bad coffee, equally bad takeaway, and six hours of sleep. That does not include the sleep I got here, by the way.”

“We’ll take a night in. I’ll cook for you.” He set aside the tablet and carefully manoeuvred out of bed.

“Wait a minute.” The covers erupted, “You’re going to _cook_?”

“You know damn well I can cook, Inspector.” He rolled his eyes as he shrugged into a dressing-gown, “I’m not going to burn the house down, you know.”

“Oh. I guess ... you haven’t cooked for me in a long, long time.”

“Of course I haven’t. I haven’t been here to take care of you, and I am very sorry about that.” He smiled and leaned over, kissing the back of Lestrade’s neck. “Come out or wait here if you like.”

“You’re a bastard, Sherlock Holmes.” Lestrade reached back and smacked him across the cheek, just a soft brush of fingers, “Get out of here.”

“Love you, too, Lestrade.” He chuckled as he left the bedroom. He left the door propped open and took stock of what they had on hand in the fridge and pantry, what he could cook with. In the end, he settled on a simple pasta with marinara and garlic bread. Simple but tasty and filling. There was a bottle of white wine, as well, that would pair very nicely. That was dinner sorted.

 

It didn’t take long before he heard the shower running and chuckled. He’d known Lestrade would do that, he usually did when Sherlock managed to lure him away from the office for a few hours. There was some comfort to be taken in the way his dearest friends had welcomed him back into their lives, the nonviolence, the...acceptance.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he heard the bedroom door creak open. The soft pad of bare feet on the hardwood heralded Lestrade’s arrival in the kitchen. He smiled as a pair of familiar arms came around him from behind, pulled him back half a step, and the pressure against his back when Lestrade put his head down between his shoulder-blades.

“Is this really happening? Are you really standing here cooking dinner for me like nothing ever happened and you didn’t spend two years dead?”

“This is really happening, Greg. Are you hungry?”

“Starving. What’s for dinner?”

“Pasta with marinara and garlic bread. There’s wine if you’d like some.”

“I keep forgetting you actually know how to use a kitchen for its intended purpose, and you’re bloody good at it, too.” Lestrade sounded muffled, shifting only enough to peek over Sherlock’s shoulder. He just smiled and held out his wine-glass. Lestrade took a sip and decided he wanted his own glass, unwinding long enough to procure said glass before he wandered back to Sherlock’s side.

“What are you thinking?” He could hear the wheels turning.

“Just thinking I’d better take the weekend off.”

“What for?”

“Gotta clear out my old place and get moved into Baker Street, don’t I?” Lestrade handed over one of the two plates and Sherlock put down a serving of the pasta. “That’s going to take at least a day.”

“Oh.” Sherlock chuckled. “Of course. Would you like me to talk to Mycroft about helping?”

“Sure? If you think you can talk him into something so mundane.”

“I doubt my brother would mind if I tell him it’s on your behalf.” He filled the second plate and they moved to the table after he covered the pot and moved it to the back of the range. “He likes you, which I can’t say is true for everyone in my circle of friends.”

“Lucky me.” Lestrade rolled his eyes. Sherlock chuckled and sat down.

“Sit and eat, Inspector.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You will sleep in my room tonight, Inspector. I may not join you until much later, if I join you at all, but sleep there.”

“Yes, Sir.” He didn’t miss the brightness in Lestrade’s eyes at the idea of sleeping in Sherlock’s bed. The normalcy of their afternoon, minus the bit of trickery they had employed to get Lestrade to Baker Street in the first place, was much appreciated. If there was any fall-out, Sherlock would handle it as it came.

 

After dinner, Lestrade helped with the wash-up and fixed tea while Sherlock picked up his violin. He played a few songs for Lestrade that he knew the DI particularly enjoyed after a stressful day and when Lestrade took their empty cups to the kitchen, bid him goodnight.

“Sleep well, Greg.”

“Good night, Sherlock. I’m...I’m glad you’re back. I’m glad you’re not...dead. It’s been awful without you.”

“You’ll be sick of me in no time, Inspector, we both know it. Good night.” He just smiled and waved him off. Lestrade came to his side for a quick hug and kissed him on the cheek.

“’Night, Sunshine. See you in the morning.” He was gone, then, leaving Sherlock behind with a silly smile on his face. He listened to the water run in the bathroom, then the other sounds of Lestrade settling down for the night.

 

As it got quiet in Baker Street, Sherlock played for Lestrade and himself, just glad he had company for the night. And maybe for longer than that, Lestrade seemed full willing to move into Baker Street with him, to keep him company and give him work. It was nice to have someone like Lestrade in his life, who could be both caretaker and dependent as needed. John had been like that once, before Moriarty, but Lestrade had kind of _always_ been there and Sherlock had done his best to be available for Lestrade in return. It wasn’t a bad way to be, not at all. He had his close friends, his partners, and a future ahead that he was relieved to have still open to him. It was so good to be back in London, to be home in the city he loved so much it hurt to be away.

* * *

* * *


	18. Remember Your Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Business as usual for the Baker Street boys. Sherlock's back from the dead, John and Greg get sassy, and casework gets done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 18 and Chapter 19 are shorter, but I wanted to split up the POVs between the boys and Irene.

* * *

* * *

After Sherlock’s return from the dead, which was a bit misleading seeing as he’d never actually been dead to begin with, life settled down a bit for the residents of Baker Street. A week after Greg made the decision to move into Baker Street, invited to do so by Sherlock, John convinced Irene to start house-hunting in Marylebone so he could be closer to Sherlock when cases came up. Mrs Hudson quickly offered up 221C to them, the only reason they turned her down was on account of Irene’s work. But Sherlock decided to take the space for himself and set about renovating the basement-flat as a workspace. Mycroft fronted the funds for the renovations and within two months, they had the entire basement done. There were two bedroom spaces, a sitting-room/kitchenette, and a full bath. The shared wall between the bedrooms was knocked out and it was divided into a workspace for Sherlock and Greg, with one corner dedicated to all of Sherlock’s lab-equipment with top quality ventilation systems and fire-control systems for Sherlock’s lab-space. The rest of the room was equipped with work-stations and bookshelves for when they had cases on; Sherlock got three installed, one for himself and the other two for Greg and John. He wanted John to have his own space when he helped out, his own dedicated place to work.

 

Sherlock made his public return from the dead about a month after the renovations on Baker Street were completed, more or less. John accompanied Greg on a case for The Met, a fairly simple case that wouldn’t have rated above a 4 on Sherlock’s scale on first glance. But upon closer examination, it turned out to be far more complex.

“Oh, this would be right up Sherlock’s alley, wouldn’t it?” John sighed as he studied the body, “I mean, I _think_ I know what the cause-of-death is, but I couldn’t tell you how it happened or when. Not...like he could.”

“Well, can you give me anything?” Greg looked thoroughly dismayed. John shoved to his feet and circled the body, talking things over as he saw them. He was about halfway through explaining what he thought the cause-of-death might be when he was interrupted.

“You’re not _entirely_ wrong, Doctor Watson, but did I teach you nothing? Did you _learn_ nothing from my methods?” If he hadn’t known already that Sherlock Holmes was well and truly alive, the sound of his voice over John’s shoulder would have startled him far more than it did, and he might have wondered if he was hallucinating. As it was, all he did was look across the body at Greg, who was both amused and appalled, and raise an eyebrow.

“Then tell us what we’re missing that’s right under our noses.”

“Am I allowed to?”

“Well, you’re here already, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be like that.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped up to John’s side and peered at the body before circling around to stand next to Greg. After a minute or two, he started talking. It was just like the old days before Moriarty had up-ended their lives and forced Sherlock into faking his own death to save his closest friends. And, just like the old days, as soon as he was done talking, he yanked off the blue nitrile gloves and shoved them into his pocket, spinning on his heel and was gone before anyone could stop him. Or, well, that’s what he _would_ have done in the old days. Today, that wasn’t quite what happened. Today, he stopped and looked at Greg, who was just standing by, bemused as always. Instead of saying anything, Sherlock carefully took hold of the DI and leaned in close, either unaware or uncaring of the absolutely dumbfounded audience they had. John just smiled as Sherlock kissed Greg.

“Well, Sherlock, if you wanted to give my team a proper kick in the teeth, that’s certainly one way to do it!” Greg chuckled as Sherlock ruffled his Belstaff and sauntered off like he hadn’t just given every single member of Greg’s team the shock of a lifetime.

“Is that why they’re all staring at us?”

“Sweetheart, they’re all staring at _you_.” John corrected, “Until a minute ago, no one else knew you were alive. Then you suddenly take over a scene like nothing’s changed and solve the case in five minutes? Of _course_ , they’re going to stare at you!”

“Well, that doesn’t mean they need to look so scandalized. It’s not exactly like I showed up naked, is it?” He looked so genuinely confused by the totally normal reactions of everyone else on the scene. John and Greg looked at each other and smiled.

“If you had, we might have been forced to take extreme measures to ensure you didn’t traumatize anyone.” Greg looked Sherlock up and down. “And last I was aware, no one but me and John gets to see you like that anyway, so there would have been jealousy involved in our tactics for certain.”

“Oh, do behave yourself, Inspector Lestrade.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I’m not quite the exhibitionist you like to think I am.”

“Pity.”

“You’ve got no problem swanning around Baker Street in a bedsheet, though!” John chimed in, “Or even Buckingham Palace, for _that_ matter!”

“Captain Watson, do mind your tongue.” Sherlock turned on him, his expression best termed predatory, “Or I will be quite happy to put it to far better use.”

“Oh, I bet you would love to, wouldn’t you?” John just couldn’t help himself.

“Careful, John.” Greg warned, grinning, “You know he’ll do it, too.” They had moved away from the body as they talked, and Sherlock studied him with a familiar expression on his face.

“Shall I have words with Miss Adler regarding your behaviour, Captain?”

“Do you think you need to?” John just folded his hands behind his back and maintained eye-contact. He and Greg were going to pay for this, dearly, but it would be worth every minute they spent taking their punishment. Sherlock looked him over closely and came to some decision. He turned his back on John and Greg and was past the tape-line before anyone could stop him. The minute he was out of sight around the next corner, their phones chimed in tandem.

“Oh, we are in _so_ much trouble,” Greg muttered as they both checked their messages. Just one, from Sherlock, with very precise instructions.

 

**63 Eaton Square. 3 hrs. You know the rules. – SH**

“Three hours? That’s rather generous of him.” Greg pocketed his phone and looked around, “Well, guess we should probably get going, then.”

“Yeah, most likely.” John cleared his throat and wondered exactly what Irene and Sherlock would put them through. They turned the scene over to Donovan, who wisely kept her mouth shut despite the questions John _knew_ she was dying to ask. Let the rumours run for a while, it wouldn’t really change anything in the end.

 

John returned to The Met with Greg and they worked in efficient silence to clear off Greg’s desk and square away any reports for this last case. Anything Greg needed from Sherlock would be received later. They managed to clear Greg’s desk and leave The Met with almost half an hour left, at which time Greg wisely clocked out for the day and locked his office. Saying goodbye to the necessary members of his team and making sure they had everything in hand for the night, Greg led the way to the car-park and they headed for Eaton Square.

“I take it you haven’t heard from Miss Adler yet, have you?”

“Nope. Believe me, for this, she would have called me.” He looked out the window, “I think she was out for most of the day, anyway.”

“Oh, boy. She didn’t have any of her, er, _difficult_ clients today, did she?”

“No, not that I was aware of. That doesn’t mean she’ll be in a _good_ mood, or a very forgiving one.” John double-checked his phone, “I’d be an idiot if I didn’t think Mister Holmes has already called her. He knows better than to spring something like this on her without some kind of warning.”

“Well, can’t say we didn’t earn it.” Greg looked sideways at him and grinned, “And I can’t say I’m all that sorry, either, for any of it.”

“You know picking on our Dom like that is risky.”

“Ah, but he knows we don’t mean anything by it. And really, he set himself up for it.”

“Yeah, he did.” John chuckled. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

When they got to Eaton Square, Greg parked in an available spot near the house and locked up. John retrieved his keys and got into the house. It was quiet, of course. Kate appeared and took their coats.

“What the hell did you do this time?”

“Is she home yet?”

“No, but _he_ is. What on earth did you do?” Kate gave them a stern look, “You should know better!”

“He set himself up for it, Kate, in our defence,” Greg said quietly, looking around. “Where’d he hole up?”

“Down in the office. Said not to bother him until Miss Adler gets home.”

“Sounds like Sherlock.” John shrugged and looked at Greg, “Well, come on, then. We’ve got our orders, might as well get on with it.”

“After you, Captain.” Greg grinned and gestured towards the hallway beyond. John shrugged and debated taking the stairs or the lift. Nah. Stairs, this once. Taking the stairs down to the basement, John let himself into the Playroom. Sherlock had clearly been in before they’d gotten back, John could see the set-ups.

“Well, it could be worse.”

“Oh, much.” Greg mused as they quietly set aside their clothes. Once everything had been folded neatly aside and certain business seen to, they took their positions, kneeling side-by-side in the middle of the room. John knew they could wait for hours if they must, but he suspected they wouldn’t have to. And because he knew both of their doms had a habit of _making_ them wait, he and Greg took the initiative and applied restraints: thigh-to-ankle and wrist restraints. They couldn’t be punished for taking that kind of initiative, of course, which was _why_ they did it at all. Once they were properly restrained and comfortable, they settled to wait for the pleasure of their doms to deliver further punishment or to let them off with a few hours of kneeling and a proper scolding. Sometimes, self-inflicted restraint was just as effective as taking a few lashes, they both knew it and their doms knew it as well.

* * *

* * *


	19. I Know I Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some bonding time between our doms.

* * *

* * *

As soon as she walked into her house, Irene just _knew_ something was up. She had received two text messages and a phone-call from Sherlock Holmes regarding a bit of a problem that had come up. She had been with clients at the time and hadn’t sent replies, suspecting it was something she could handle once she got home. Kate had divulged nothing useful during their drive home, but Irene caught sight of a familiar silver car parked near the house.

“Kate?”

“Yes, Miss Adler?”

“Why is Inspector Lestrade’s car parked outside?”

“You would have to ask Mister Holmes, ma’am. I suspect it has everything to do with his attempts to get in contact with you.”

“Oh, what have those boys done now?” Irene could only imagine what kind of mischief John and Greg had gotten up to while her back was turned. “Where are they, Kate?”

“Mister Holmes is in the office, said not to disturb him until you got in, and I believe Captain Watson and Inspector Lestrade are in the Playroom, ma’am.”

“How long have they been down there?”

“An hour and a half, ma’am.”

“This should be interesting.” She smiled, “Well, they can wait a bit longer. I need to freshen up and change.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Kate watched her go upstairs. “Shall I send for Mister Holmes, ma’am?”

“Oh, you might as well! I’ll see what I can do for him.” Irene didn’t look at Kate as she gave that order, she didn’t have to.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Kate.” She made her way up to her bedroom, where she closed the door but did not lock it. Discarding her clothes, she ran the water for a bath. If she knew anything about Sherlock Holmes, he would find her before too long. If she was lucky, he would join her for her bath and they might talk about whatever it was their subs had done.

Sure enough, she had just shut the water off when she heard the bedroom door close. She listened to the familiar sounds of shoes being kicked off and set aside, the tell-tale thud as each hit the floor, the rustle of clothes being removed.

“Don’t you dare.” She didn’t look over her shoulder, “That’s mine, Mister Holmes.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He stopped whatever it was she’d caught him doing and she stood up, turning smoothly and walking out to find him standing at the foot of the bed, his belt and two buttons undone. Only his cuff-buttons, smart boy. She read his body-language, the glint in his eyes. Oh, he’d been _working_ before he’d come here, hadn’t he?

“Did you solve your case, Mister Holmes?”

“Of course I did, Miss Adler.”

“Good, that must have been exciting for you.”

“Well, it was rather simple, but I did get to do some live work again. That, I admit, _was_ exciting.”

“And as a result, you have started rumours at The Met.” She chuckled and approached the tall, brilliant detective who had once been a rival. They were no longer rivals, if they ever had truly been, and this was a meeting of friends and consorts.

“This is mine, Mister Holmes.” She said again, pushing his hands out of the way as she undid the buttons of his shirt one at a time. He remained absolutely still, knowing very well what she was capable of if he tried to intervene, and she studied the planes of his body. Removing the shirt, she folded it aside and circled him, running her fingers along one long scar on his back, making note of the texture against her skin. There were rather more scars than there ever had been before he faked his death, and it made her sad to see them.

“These are terrible. They must have hurt.”

“They did hurt. And I didn’t have anyone to look after me.”

“You poor thing.” She touched the line of his spine, naming the vertebrae in her head as she went down. “You must have missed Captain Watson terribly while you were away.”

“I did miss him. So much. And I never thought...”

“You never thought you would see him again.” She sighed and went around to face him. “I will never apologize for what I did for him, Sherlock, you didn’t see him the way I did. The struggles, the nightmares, the utter despair. The...desperation.”

“Thank you, Irene. You saved John Watson’s life and gave him everything I couldn’t.” He took her hand in his and touched the side of her face. “The night I saw you together, the night he...proposed to you, I was heartbroken, but I knew it was better for us both. I will never, _ever_ , come between you.”

“Better me than one of his hussy ex-girlfriends, Sherlock.” She undid the placket and flies of his trousers, “He told you about Rosamund Victor?”

“Yes he did, the day I revealed myself to him a week later.” Sherlock smiled, “He didn’t seem very surprised to see me.”

“He was just glad to know you were still alive, Sherlock. He missed you so much he would talk to you when you weren’t there. We visited that headstone once a month, at least. I always went with him, of course.” She took him by the hand once she had him out of his clothes, which were all carefully folded aside, and led the way to the bathroom.

“Now, come along. Tell me what business you were on that you banished two very obedient but stubborn subs to kneel in the Playroom until we decide what to do with them. It must be quite a story.”

“I admit I may have set myself up for it, but even I know you can’t let those two get away with just anything.”

“Were they intentionally defiant?” Irene asked, smiling as she gave him a hand into the tub.

“Oh, absolutely. I keep forgetting that John has a bit of a mouth on him when he feels up to it.”

“His position in your relationship as a switch gives him a special insight, I take it they ganged up on you?”

“That is one word for their...behaviour.” He scowled a bit, but that expression melted into something far more blissful as the hot water took effect.

“Just relax a bit, Sherlock. Talk to me, I’ll take care of you.” She slid behind him, careful not to move too quickly or make any move that might be considered threatening.

 

After a few minutes of quiet reflection, Sherlock began to talk. And not just about the incident that had led them to this moment, but to everything else. It was a sign of trust that he confided so much in her, and she knew they had come quite a long way from their first contentious encounter. There had been a time when Sherlock wouldn’t have trusted her to get anywhere within hand’s reach of him, let alone tell her some of his most troubled thoughts, but that time was far behind them now and they had far more in common than they had in converse. Irene was glad he felt he could trust her like this, it was important for all of them.

“Is your mind calm now, Mister Holmes?” She asked after a while. He was almost completely submerged, his whole body relaxed and his eyes were closed.

“How did you do that?”

“Magic fingers.” She smiled and ran her fingers through his hair, knowing getting it dry would take some care. “Do you feel better?”

“God, I thought John was the only one who could do that. Greg’s not a slouch, but...” He shifted, leaning his head back to look up at her, “I never appreciated everything you were capable of, Miss Adler. I apologize for ever assuming the worst of you.”

“You had every reason, every _right_ to assume the worst of me, Mister Holmes, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t glad to hear that you’ve changed your opinion of me.”

“I saved your life for a reason, Irene.” He sighed, reaching under the water to touch her thigh, “You were and remain to this day one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met, and by far the most intelligent woman.”

“I believe I also hold the honour of being the _only_ woman to ever outwit the great Sherlock Holmes and beat him at his own game.” She smiled and leaned forward to kiss him on the temple, “You are a very worthy opponent, but you make a far better ally.”

“Would you say we are friends?”

“Hm.” She thought on that. “Yes, actually. I would absolutely say you were my friend. Am I _your_ friend, Mister Holmes?”

“I think you are, Miss Adler. You have been very good to the most important people in my life, and you welcomed me when no one else knew I was alive.”

“Thank you, Mister Holmes.” She stretched a bit and made a face as she reached a pocket of cold water. “Hm. The water’s cooled. Shall we remove ourselves?”

“I suppose we might as well, and we can see to our subs.”

“For their trespasses, I’d wager a few hours of kneeling is more than enough punishment. There was no physical harm done and you admit your complicity in the affair.”

“Absolutely.” He smiled and heaved himself out of the water, turning to give her a hand. As the tub drained, they rinsed down in the shower and went to get dressed.

After putting themselves to rights, they went downstairs to the Playroom, where Irene was amused to find John and Greg kneeling side-by-side on the floor, heads down, waiting. She chuckled and looked at Sherlock.

“Well, Mister Holmes, do you suppose they’ve done their penance?”

“How long has it been?”

“It was an hour and a half when you came upstairs, and it’s been almost three hours since I returned.”

“Yes, I think it’s been long enough.” Sherlock smiled and stepped past her, “Shall we release them?”

“Absolutely.” Irene followed Sherlock and went around behind John, making sure to make contact with him. “You have been very good, Captain.”

“Thank you, Miss Adler. Are we in much trouble?”

“No. Hold still for me, Captain.” She went around to remove the wrist-cuffs and then moved to loosen the thigh-to-ankle restraints. Getting him onto his front didn’t take very long and she carefully removed the restraints, setting them aside. “Stay there until you are ready. When you can stand up, get dressed and come upstairs.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“That’s my good boy.” She leaned down and kissed the back of his neck, smiling as he made some soft noise. Sherlock offered her a hand up and they left their subs to recover enough to stand. Going upstairs, they settled in the sitting room and waited. Rosemary came up shortly with tea and biscuits for them, trailed by Bréagha, who pushed her muzzle into Sherlock’s hand for some fussing before she came over to Irene for the same.

It was forty-five minutes before they saw Greg or John, by which time both of them had taken showers. They were allowed to take care of themselves in the wake of a session if their doms did not. Irene would look after John tonight, and Sherlock had Greg well in-hand. When Sherlock and Greg stayed at Eaton Place that night, Irene was not at all surprised. She was rather used to it by now. There was this unspoken need to be in close quarters with the family-group that ran through all of human history, sometimes that family-group was biological, sometimes it was acquired. Irene had become part of Sherlock’s family-group when she and John got engaged, and he made sure she knew that.

* * *

* * *


	20. A Moment Of The Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes his comeback, life goes on at 221B Baker Street, and plans are made for John and Irene's future. John asks Sherlock a very important question. He doesn't QUITE shut down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nods to "The Empty Hearse" are here and in the next chapter. 
> 
> No Bonfire Night angst, I couldn't find a place for it and I never really liked it anyway. Don't hurt my boys. Might allude to the train-bombing plot, but won't dwell on it.  
> ::  
> Changed the title from "Belong To My Best Friend" to "A Moment Of The Show". I want to use the original title for a different chapter.

* * *

* * *

After Sherlock made an appropriately splashy comeback, complete with a bizarre little press-con outside of Baker Street, life settled down to whatever accounted for “normal” and Sherlock began taking cases again. John, of course, joined him on every single case he took, whether private or on behalf of The Met. Nearly everything related to case-work happened in the basement flat, but there was still plenty of overflow that had made its way upstairs to 221B. And then, as if that wasn’t enough to keep anyone busy for ages, Sherlock decided that someone had better see to planning John and Irene’s wedding. John wasn’t sure if that was a good idea or not, Irene thought it was delightful.

At the moment, the sitting room was a bizarre mix of case-work and wedding-prep. A stack of case-files from The Met sat haphazardly on the work-table by the windows, two more boxes were shoved under the table itself, and Greg was hacking away at a few more recent cases he’d brought home. John was working on another blog-entry, having rebooted the damn thing yet again after Sherlock’s official comeback, and Sherlock was...John honestly had no idea what he was doing, but it was apparently quite serious, he had two laptops and two files as well as a notebook. The wall behind the couch, which had once been reserved for papers and such relating to any current case, was instead plastered with printouts, pamphlets, and flyers for the wedding. Everything from seating arrangements to catering menus, and John could have sworn he saw colour-schemes and floral arrangements as well in that mess.

“Sherlock, what on earth are you doing?”

“Shush. I’m busy.”

“Oh, stop worrying!” Irene cooed from her perch on the couch as they watched Sherlock, who currently sat by the coffee table working on something, “It’s keeping him busy, isn’t it?”

“That’s not the problem,” John muttered, eyeing his flat-mate. “You’re _busy_? Doing _what_? You’ve been like that for almost four straight hours, I’m not even sure you’ve _blinked_! What is this time?”

“Guest-list.”

“Oh, for the...” He sighed and shoved to his feet after setting his laptop aside, “Oh, Sherlock, there’s hardly enough people I know to invite to the wedding that I don’t hate or consider a passing acquaintance!”

“I never said I was planning anything on a Royal Wedding scale, did I?” That got him a familiar look and he rolled his eyes, venturing into the kitchen.

“Knowing you, my dear, I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Oh, stop! You two.” Irene scolded, far too amused by the back-and-forth to really mean any of it. “Arguing like an old married couple!”

“Except I’m not marrying him!”

“Thank God for that.” Greg piped up, “That’d be a bit awkward, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, you stop, Greg.” John sniped, “None out of you, sir!”

“Oh, you love me!”

“Tosser.” He shook his head as Greg blew him a kiss.

“I’m only inviting people I’m absolutely certain will attend.” Sherlock defended himself, “It’s not a very large number of people.”

“Well, did you reach out to Bill Murray at least? He’d kill me in my sleep if he found out I’d got myself hitched and forgot to invite him. Never mind telling him I was getting married in the first place.” John thought of his Army mates, could name a few who would be more than happy to show up if they got invited and would be just as happy to crash the party if they weren’t.

“Oh, I didn’t.” Sherlock glanced at whatever was displayed on his screen, “Should I?”

“Unless you want to worry about gate-crashers? You’d better.”

“Anyone else you can think of?”

“Who _did_ you invite? Just...out of curiosity.”

“Well, the four of us, of course. I was thinking of inviting Mycroft and Molly, if you’re not opposed to having my brother at your wedding?”

“I don’t mind your brother.” John smirked, “Especially not since I got him more involved with Nowzad Dogs.”

“Oh! Oh! We should invite _them_!” Sherlock brightened up and looked for Bréagha, who was sleeping on Greg’s feet, “Can I invite Pen and Hannah? Please, John?”

“I think they’re definitely on the “kill me in my sleep” list of guests, Sherlock.” He chuckled, “You’d better make sure they get an invitation.”

“Right. So...Nowzad Dogs for certain.” Sherlock made another note. “Then, Bill Murray and whoever he happens to be involved with at the moment?”

“Yes. I think he got married last year, but don’t quote me on that.” John scratched the back of his neck, “Um, you’d actually...better call him. He’ll have the names of everyone else who’d be interested. I don’t have a lot of friends, but if there’s anyone I _don’t_ mind inviting to a party, it’s the lads. They’re good people, they’d come out for something like my wedding.”

“I’d love to meet them.” Irene leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, “You light up when you talk about them, they’re clearly important to you.”

“Pretty sure that’s mutual. Bill’s been on me for ages, says it’s a crying shame he hasn’t met you properly.” John thought of the grief he’d gotten from Murray, once it had come out that John was dating again and not just  _any_ woman, a very particular woman of prior acquaintance. Murray knew exactly who Irene was and what she was to John and Sherlock, so he’d had a good bit of fun picking on John for actually getting together with her in any sort of semi-serious romantic relationship. John had just told him to rack off and keep his mouth shut if he didn’t have anything nice to say, and Murray had simply said that he wanted to meet the woman John was dating for himself, he knew all about her but there was a bit of a difference between reputation and person and he wanted to meet Irene properly.

“Well, I assume there’s a good reason for that?” Sherlock inquired.

“He’s deployed. So is his partner, if I’m not wrong.”

“Not a definite yes, but certainly we’d better put them on the list.” Sherlock was writing something on the notebook at his side. “Talk to Bill Murray, get the list of military guests. Anyone else?”

“Oh, lord, do you think we should invite your cousin?” John looked at his fiancée, who narrowed her eyes for a minute.

“I think we had better. And you might as well extend invitations to the rest of them, or God knows we’ll never hear the end of it.”

“End of what?” Sherlock looked over the top of his laptop, “Wait, you have a cousin?”

“Yes. And she’s currently involved with one of your brother’s people.” Irene just smiled at Sherlock, “Please tell me you know James Bond.”

“Oh! Oh, I didn’t...ahh, that sly bastard.” Sherlock grinned, “I _knew_ he looked a bit too pleased with himself! I had no idea that had turned into more than a holiday fling!”

“Quite a bit more, actually.” John chuckled, “You’d better make sure you invite Alec Trevelyan or I’ll get a nasty letter. Probably with a fuse attached for good measure.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t do that.”

“Sherlock, if you thought my lads were going to be fussy about me getting married, you obviously don’t know 007 or 006 as well as you thought you did. And while you’re inviting MI-6, make sure Q gets invited?”

“You want to invite my little brother?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I can’t promise he’ll come, he’s worse about social gatherings than either Mycroft or I ever were.”

“Invite him anyway. Maybe Eve can sweet-talk him into showing up.”

“You want to invite _them_?”

“Bill Tanner and Eve Moneypenny are at the top of that list, Sherlock, don’t you dare forget them. Worst case they can’t come, but I’d rather give them the fair chance to tell me otherwise.” He sighed, “Christ I keep forgetting just how _long_ I’ve known these people.”

“And I keep forgetting you used to be one of them.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Did I ever work out your number, John?”

“Once, while we were quite drunk. Can’t remember the exact circumstances, but you looked me dead in the eye and announced to a blessedly _empty_ house that you knew exactly what my number had been.”

“I did?”

“Yep!” Greg was beaming, “I remember that, I couldn’t believe it!”

“Oh, stop it, Greg.”

“You don’t _look_ like a Double-Oh, John, no offence!”

“None taken.” John just smiled.

“So much for not knowing anyone you wanted to invite to your own wedding.” Irene murmured, “You have more people you know well and care about than you thought you did.”

“Well, it’s more that I don’t really put much thought into it on a daily basis.” He looked at Irene, “Is there anyone aside from James and Vesper you want to invite on your side?”

“Hmm. Not particularly, I don’t have very many friends at all and less family I speak to than you do, I’m afraid.”

“I suppose we won’t be inviting your sister, will we?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Invite her, I doubt she’ll show up.” John frowned, “God, I hope she doesn’t. She’d better bloody well be fucking stone-cold _sober_ if she shows up. I am not above kicking her out if she shows up plastered.”

“And yet she would never forgive you if you _didn’t_ invite her.”

“Send an invitation to my mother as well, even though I _know_ she won’t bother.”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“We haven’t spoken in almost two decades.” He sighed, “It’s not quite her fault entirely, I just don’t have the energy to reach out to someone who’s only going to berate me for my short-comings, real or imagined, and then spend the rest of the time complaining about how my sister is throwing her life away and trying to drown herself in a whiskey bottle.”

“If she comes, that means she cares enough to at least _see_ you.”

“And don’t worry, I’ll keep her from saying anything rude.” Sherlock looked at him, eyes grey.

“How on earth would you do that?”

“By deducing her out loud, of course. Humiliation is a wonderful tool if wielded properly.”

“And Christ knows you’re aces at making people feel small. God bless you, Sherlock Holmes.” John just smiled at his best friend. “Did I already ask you if you wouldn’t mind a favour?”

“Depends on which favour.”

“I need a best man, you dunce.”

“Ask Greg, he’s good people.”

“I’m not asking Greg, I’m asking _you_.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked at him, “But I’m a terrible person, John, and absolutely no good at all being nice to people.”

“Please, Sherlock?”

“Why?”

“Well, you sort of already took over everything else about the wedding.” He folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head, “Who the hell else would I _ask_ at this rate?”

“He’s got a point, Sherlock,” Greg said quietly. “Hell, if it’s that much of a concern, I’ll write your speech _for_ you.”

“Oh. Well...if you really think it’s...”

“Yes!”

“Okay.” Sherlock just looked at John and Irene, “Really?”

“Sherlock, you’re my best friend. One of the best men I _know_. Of course I want you to be my best man. I only plan to get married once, and I don’t want to ask anyone else.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked, “Well...of course! I mean, if you really think it’s the best idea.”

“I think it’s a grand idea!” Irene got up and went around the coffee table, “You’re a clever man, Mister Holmes, and really, you have already taken most of the responsibilities upon yourself. I wouldn’t want anyone else standing with my fiancé at that altar.”

“Thank you, Miss Adler.” Sherlock looked up at Irene, who had gone as far as making physical contact, and smiled. “Of course I will.”

“That’s my boy.” Irene gave Sherlock that sweet, benign smile that meant she was truly pleased and leaned down to kiss him. John wasn’t bothered at all by what he’d just witnessed, it wasn’t the first time he’d watched Irene ground Sherlock from getting stuck in his head on something. When she returned to the couch, he pulled her into his lap.

“Thanks, love, for that.”

“I want him as much as you do, John.”

“Does that mean Kate’s going to be your chief bridesmaid?”

“She won’t demand it, but I think that’ll do.” Irene shrugged. John chuckled. Kate standing as their chief bridesmaid would put Anthea on the guest-list as a plus one. Which was really just fine. And honestly, John didn’t think he would trust anyone else to stand up with him on the most important day of his life than Sherlock Holmes. _Maybe_ Bill Murray, maybe. But he had asked Sherlock, and Sherlock had more or less accepted. That was enough for him. Enough for now.

* * *

* * *

 


	21. Friends Of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets into trouble and out of it again, a terrorist plot is successfully dismantled, and a Christmas party is had. Christmas at Baker Street brings friends and family alike together in the spirit of the season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief nod to the Bonfire Night escapades in this chapter. And we get to meet John's old MI-6 mates.  
> ::  
> Diligent readers will notice a slight change. Edits have been made regarding where John and Irene are living. Thanks again to Purr who pointed out a bit of a snag.

* * *

* * *

It was quiet for a while, the calm before a rather frightening storm. Mycroft came to Sherlock regarding a sensitive case that he didn’t seem terribly interested in right away. Apparently word of a plot to bomb Parliament on the night of 5 November had gotten to him and he wanted Baker Street to take the case. They did, ultimately, and found themselves in a race against time. John went missing and it was only a string of cryptic text-messages that led Sherlock and Irene to find him in a bonfire. They pulled him out in the nick of time, and set to solving the rest of the case. In the end, the case was solved, the plot was thwarted, all responsible and involved parties were apprehended, and life settled down again.

John and Irene made the decision to move from the Eaton Square house to a five bedroom semi-detached house on Clifton Hill. They were far closer to Baker Street and it wasn't unusual for John to spend days at a time _at_ Baker Street while on a case, or for Sherlock to do the same at the Clifton Hill house while they were between cases. At Baker Street, John’s rooms were kept up for the nights he stayed over, occasionally Irene joined him; and at Clifton Hill, they had a room set aside for Greg and Sherlock for when _they_ visited, as they sometimes did.

 

It didn’t take long before Christmas had come, and Irene decided to throw a party at Baker Street. Just friends and family, which meant inviting Mycroft and Molly, who couldn’t come on account of prior engagements that day. But they managed to talk Q into stepping away from MI-6 for a few hours, they did _that_ by inviting Alec Trevelyan. They also invited James Bond and _his_ fiancée, they promised to try and be there. The day of the party, Mycroft called Sherlock in a panic.

 _“Sherlock, please. I beg of you.”_ Mycroft’s voice filtered out of the phone as Sherlock finished getting ready for the party. _“You can take over at the interval.”_

“Oh, I’m sorry, brother dear, but you made a promise.” He smirked, “There’s nothing I can do to help. Besides, isn’t Molly there?”

_“But you don’t understand the pain of it – the horror!”_

“I am very sorry, Mycroft, but I simply can’t help you. I have my own obligations.” He chuckled and finished buttoning his shirt, “You know, we _did_ invite you. You could have come to our party instead.”

_“Mummy and Dad wanted to meet Molly. And they...”_

“I know, I know.” Sherlock chuckled. His brother was stuck playing host to their parents at a performance of Les Miserables with Molly Hooper, which was the _only_ reason they hadn’t been able to make it to the Christmas party John and Irene had decided to throw in the spirit of the season. His parents had all but conned Mycroft into going with them, using the excuse of finally meeting his cute fiancée as a very clever cover and then springing the trap by presenting four tickets to that night’s showing of Les Miserables. Molly, being a theatre aficionado, had jumped on the chance and now poor Mycroft was stuck.

A knock on the door interrupted his focus and he looked over his shoulder as the door opened.

“Oh, _there_ you are.” It was Greg Lestrade, who was grinning, “That’s Myc?”

“Yep.” He rolled his eyes. “Mycroft, I wish you all the luck in the world. Have a good evening, brother mine, I have my own obligations to attend!” With that, he hung up on a muffled tirade. He didn’t feel sorry about it at all.

“Did he really just try to convince you to take over for him?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Sherlock smiled and tossed his phone towards the bed and finished getting dressed, tucking the shirt into his trousers. “It was his fault for falling for it, though. My parents are quite clever when they feel like it.”

“Yeah, tell me something I _don’t_ know.” Greg rolled his eyes and held out the suit-jacket, “Come on, you, better make an appearance before Irene comes looking for you.”

“She doesn’t scare me, Greg.”

“Oh, bollocks she doesn’t. You respect that woman enough not to test her limits.” Greg smirked, “Admit it, though, you _like_ having someone like that who can test you.”

“She puts _up_ with me, Greg.” He shook his head and buttoned the jacket, “And her intervention on John’s behalf has worked nothing short of miracles.”

“All he needed was someone to turn to, someone to take control.” Greg watched him finish getting ready.

“He could have turned to you.”

“Sherlock, it took him a _year_ to talk to any of us.” His partner gave him a level look, “And the first time I heard from him after he got out of jail after serving time for graffiti-tagging was a bloody text message masquerading as a suicide note.”

“He told me about that.” Sherlock frowned as he recalled that bizarre conversation, the audio he had listened to, the text message in question that had been carefully archived. “I had no idea it was so bad. I thought...”

“Sherlock, what did I tell you back in January? You can’t expect us to just understand your motives if you leave us in the dark.”

“I know.”

“You’re damn lucky John didn’t beat the sense out of you when you showed up back in his life.”

“I thought he would. I thought...I honestly didn’t think I had any place in his life, but that...”

“You’re his best friend, Sherlock, he will be happy to make room for you. He wouldn’t have moved back here if he didn’t care about you.” Greg took his hand, “Now come on, you, there’s a party you’re not going to miss.”

“I don’t think John would ever forgive me.” He knew this kind of thing was very important to John. As if to make it clear he had wasted quite enough time, the door was pushed open from outside and the soft jangle of metal told him who had come looking.

“Oh, hello, Bréagha.” He smiled and held out his hand to John’s faithful companion animal. “Come to find me, have you?”

“Smart thing, isn’t she?” Greg chuckle as Bréagha gave him a thorough sniff and then got up on her hind legs.

“Oh, get down, you.” Sherlock shoved her back onto all fours with a laugh, “Who taught you those bad manners, hmm?” Sherlock ruffled Bréagha’s fur and headed for the door with Greg at his side.

Voices out in the sitting room belonged to Mrs Hudson and Irene, who were currently sat together on the couch.

“Oh, I’m really pleased, Irene.” Mrs Hudson was gushing, just beside herself. “Have you set a date?”

“Er, well we thought May.”

“Oh! Spring wedding!” She looked over at John, who just gave her a smile. “That’s just lovely.”

“Yeah. I said no to a winter wedding.”

“You will be there, Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson gave Sherlock a stern look, as if daring him to say otherwise.

“Weddings – not really my thing.”

“Oh, bollocks! You’ve planned out the whole bloody thing, Sherlock!” John scolded, “Don’t pretend like you don’t care.”

“I never said I didn’t. Besides, I said yes, didn’t I?”

“Oh, boys, be nice.” Irene piped in, “It’s Christmas!”

“Hello, everyone!” They were interrupted again by the arrival of some of their guests.

“Vesper!” Irene was on her feet in a heartbeat and hugging the woman who barely had one foot in the door, “Oh, you made it!”

“Of course I made it! I was not about to wait until the wedding to see you, that’s far too long!”

“Oh, that’s right. Cousins.” He smiled and looked at John, who dutifully shoved to his feet and went to say hello. A handshake for James Bond, who looked rather happily settled with his lot, and a hug for Vesper Lynd, the lucky woman who’d managed to get the indomitable 007 to slow down a bit.

“Hey, Vesper. Hello, James.”

“Watson. My cousin must be keeping you out of trouble, you look almost healthy.”

“Oh, stop it. I get enough of that from Sherlock and Greg, ta. I don’t need it from the likes of _you_ , sir.” John faced up to the taller man and Sherlock snickered. He kept forgetting that John had known Bond rather well once, it seemed a different lifetime. As she always did, Bréagha went to introduce herself to the newcomers.

“Oh, John, you didn’t say you had a dog!” Vesper was, of course, immediately fond of John’s companion animal. “She’s beautiful! What’s her name?”

“That’s Bréagha.” John smiled as Bréagha gave Bond a more careful inspection.

“Your old companion animal from Afghanistan?”

“Same one. Good memory, James.”

“Can’t forget this old girl, can I? Bloody well saved my life at least once, and yours more times over than that.” Bond gave Bréagha a bit of a fuss. “I don’t suppose you remember me at all, do you, girl?” Maybe not, but she had no problem warming up to the charismatic Double-Oh. John fetched drinks and told the couple to find a seat wherever there was space. That turned out to be next to Mrs Hudson and Irene on the couch. Mrs Hudson, of course, was quite coy with Bond, who didn’t seem to mind at all.

It was a small group, friends and family exclusive, and when his little brother suddenly showed up with Bond’s partner in tow, it got quite interesting.

“Oh, look at that.” Sherlock had spotted the cab, “I wonder what they’re doing here.” A minute later, Q and his plus-one showed themselves.

“Sherlock, what the _hell_ did you say to Mycroft?”

“Oh, don’t tell me he called _you_?” Sherlock snickered, “I’m not sorry, Q. How did you get out of it?”

“By regretfully informing him that I already had plans made for the evening and it wasn’t my fault he got wrangled into entertaining Mummy and Dad. He really should know better by now.”

“You would like to think so, wouldn’t you?” Sherlock smiled and took their coats. “Happy Christmas, little brother.”

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock. Haven’t got into trouble lately, have you?”

“Mm. Nothing I’d need your help getting out of.”

“Oh, who put _you_ on a leash, then, Scotty?” Trevelyan beamed, throwing an arm around his shoulders, “Thought I heard a rumour you’d got yourself someone who keeps you in line these days?”

“That’s not a rumour, Trevelyan.” Sherlock made a face at the old nickname he just couldn’t seem to shake. Almost no one ever called him Scotty, but the people who did just wouldn’t stop.

“I see your manners haven’t improved any.”

“Oh, come on, Scotty, you love me!”

“You’re a bloody _menace_ , Six! Leave my flat-mate alone!” John scolded, getting between them. “Q, for the love of Christ, make sure he behaves himself?”

“I do try, Eight. But have you tried lately?”

“No, thank Christ, he’s not _my_ responsibility.” John gave Trevelyan a familiar level look, “Don’t blow up my house, 006, or I won’t be the only one quite put out with you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Echo. Good to see you, old man.”

“Yeah, you too,” John grunted. “Oi! You put me down, 006!” He objected as Trevelyan’s hug lifted him off his feet. Did people just conveniently forget that John wasn’t very tall and absolutely hated nothing more than being picked up? Even if it was just a few inches, he _hated_ that. Sherlock did it to get him wound up, but he could get away with it.

“I know, I know, you hate being picked up.” Trevelyan laughed and set John down again, ruffling his hair.

“Bloody menace. Fuck you, Trevelyan.”

“Time and place of your choosing, Echo!” Trevelyan wiggled his fingers at John, who rolled his eyes and headed for the kitchen. Sherlock tagged along to keep him company, one ear to the conversations going on in the sitting room.

“You know he means well, John.”

“Yeah, well, he can kiss my arse.” John gave him a look, “You never had to do field-work with that menace, did you?”

“Er, no. I’m afraid I never did. I was on the other end of that arrangement.”

“Ugh. Lucky you.” John rolled his eyes and handed him a bottle, “Open that for me, will you?”

“Pleased to.” He took the bottle and the opener and set to work on it. “Why does Alec call you Echo?”

“Because he’s a prat. He knows I hate it.” John retrieved glasses for the wine and set them out. “Probably calls me Echo for the same reason he calls _you_ Scotty.”

“I assume he calls you Echo because of your Double-Oh designation.”

“But where the hell he got Echo from 008 is beyond me.” John held out one hand for the bottle once he’d got the cork out, it came out with a rather satisfying pop. Setting the glasses on a tray with the bottle once they were full, they went back out to the sitting room just in time for Mrs Hudson to ask what might be just the wrong question.

“So, how do you boys know John and Sherlock, then?” She asked of Trevelyan and Q.

“Oh, we, um, used to work with him, see,” Q said tactfully.

“Oh, you did?”

“Christ,” John muttered. “Here we go.”

“She didn’t know, did she?”

“Nope. She will in a second, Alec can’t keep his fucking mouth shut.” John took a few glasses off the tray and handed one each to Irene and Mrs Hudson.

“Oh, thank you, dear! I didn’t know you had such interesting friends, John!”

“Interesting is probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about Alec Trevelyan, Mrs Hudson. And whatever he tells you about me, don’t believe a bloody _word_ of it.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because knowing him, ninety per cent of it’s a flat-out lie. He likes to talk big.”

“Oh, he can’t be that bad, can he?” Mrs Hudson looked at Trevelyan over the rim of her glass and smiled, “He’s quite charming!”

“Oh, no.” Sherlock looked at John and sighed. Well, this would be interesting. Anything Mrs Hudson had ever wanted to know about either of them would be hers for the having by the end of the night.

“That didn’t take long, did it?” John made a face, “Alec, I love you as a brother, but God help you.”

“Or what, you’ll bury me headfirst and forget where?”

“Tosser.”

“Be nice, Alec.” Sherlock shook his head and settled in his chair.

“Oh, don’t fuss, Scotty! I can be nice as you like!”

“My brother is a bloody saint for putting up with the likes of you as often as he does.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Could do so much better, Q. Maybe try for a shot with Moneypenny? She’s right in your league, I’d imagine. And you’d have plenty in common to talk about.”

“Sherlock!”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I don’t need the two of you...oh, forget it. John, bottle please.”

“Got something better, Q. Give me a mo, son.” John hopped to his feet and was gone again. Some rattling and cursing got him back with a stack of rocks glasses and a bottle of whiskey.

“Oh, that’ll do.” Q grinned and took a full glass when John handed him one. “Bless you.”

“Got this from James back in April. Never bothered to open it. Christmas’ll do, I think.” John sat down again with his own glass. Sherlock smiled and got comfortable. If he knew Mrs Hudson at all, she’d want music at some point and he knew she’d insist that he do a bit of play for them. Sure enough, not an hour passed before she was begging him for it.

“Oh, very well, Mrs Hudson, if that will make you happy.” He didn’t mind, really, for all the complaining he might do. Picking up his beloved violin, he thought for a moment on something appropriate for the occasion. One of the regional carols might do. Or...no. Something a bit more exotic, perhaps? Hmm. Remembering his grandmother, who had all but raised him, Sherlock smiled and started to play. The strains of Silent Night came first, followed by a French carol he had never quite forgotten.

Sometimes he missed Nana, knew he might do well to visit her sometime before she passed away. She kept asking after him, and he never quite...quite got around to making good on any efforts to see her. He would ensure that he and Greg made an honest effort to visit her in the new year, she would love to have them for a visit. And perhaps...perhaps he could trouble her to make one more trip to England for his wedding day? He had no idea when that day would come, he wanted to see John safely married off before he worried about his own future like that, but he knew his grandmother would want to hear all about it. Christmas this year was a rather busy one, but he had nothing to complain about. That...was quite rare.

“He’s _smiling_.” Someone whispered. “Would you look at that?”

“He does that when he’s content. Happens more often these days than it used to.” That was John. Sherlock’s smile softened a bit. Dear God how he loved John Watson, and knowing he had someone else in his life who loved him as much as Sherlock did was all he could ask for. Jealousy had no place here, he couldn’t afford it. And John had come back to him, it was enough.

* * *

* * *


	22. Enigma of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The New Year comes, and with it more work. A run for Nowzad Dogs takes a very personal turn for John and he reunites with an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hints of Jolto. That is all.

* * *

* * *

 

The New Year came with little fanfare, John and Sherlock were on a case for The Met. They passed New Year’s Eve sitting in Greg’s car on a stake-out. When the clock struck midnight, John was sitting on their suspect after a two-mile pursuit on foot.

“Greg, cuffs!” He snapped, using his weight to hold the man under his knees still.

“Nice work, Watson!” Greg John a pair of handcuffs and he put them to use. “You okay?”

“Fine. Winded, but I’m just fine.” He coughed into his sleeve and waited for Greg’s lot to collect the man. Sherlock gave him a hand up and he batted bits of crumbled tarmac and gravel from his clothes.

“You haven’t lost your touch, John.” Sherlock grinned and reached out, brushing at a streak on his face, “Did that hurt?”

“Barely felt much of anything.” John shrugged, “Does it look too bad?”

“It’ll bruise as always, but I shouldn’t think it will leave any permanent mark. Rarely does anyway.”

“Tsh.” He made a dismissive sound and looked around. “Well, that’s done. Let’s get our reports out of the way and head home.”

“Alright, you two, come on!” Greg had his radio up. “Paperwork has your names on it!”

“Thanks, Greg.” John sighed and ruffled his hair as they followed Greg to his car. It was a quiet, energized drive back to headquarters, it usually was after a good run like the one they’d had. After filing their reports for the case they were on, they stayed to help Greg with some outstanding cases.

Once they had Greg’s desk clear, they went home to Baker Street. John took a shower and got ready for bed, missing Irene as he always did when he was on a case and away from his fiancée. He had called her during the stake-out and they had Skyped that morning, but he still missed her. As he brushed his teeth, he checked his phone one more time for messages. There was one sent right at midnight that she had sent him.

 

**Happy New Year, my love. I miss you tonight. Be safe. – IWA**

John smiled and composed a brief reply.

 

**Miss you terribly. See you soon, my love. – JWA**

Hitting the “Send” button, John spit, rinsed, cleaned his brush, and switched off the light as he headed for the bedroom. Plugging his phone in, he got under the covers and turned out the bedside lamp. It didn’t take long to fall asleep, and he actually slept quite well.

 

Thanks to an internal alarm clock that had never really quite adjusted to civilian life but was quite well-adjusted to a life solving crime with Sherlock Holmes, John found himself awake at what some people might consider an ungodly hour. The sun wasn’t even up as he found himself reaching for his phone, which had just started ringing. He checked the caller-id before he answered, not that there were many people who would bother him this early who weren’t already in the house with him.

“Oh.” He sighed as he recognized the number. “Right. H’lo?”

_“Jack-O! Sorry about the hour, did I wake you up?”_

“No, Pen, I’m awake. What’s up?” He yawned and rubbed his face with one hand as he looked at his watch. He knew Pen Farthing didn’t keep normal hours, but 7:15 am was a little early even for someone like John.

_“Hey, so, yeah. You remember that favour I asked you for back in October?”_

“And reminded me about at Christmas?” He chuckled, “Yeah, I remember. What do you need me for, then?”

_“Liberty is ready to go home to her veteran.”_

“Oh, Christ. Really?” John struggled to sit up, bits and pieces coming together for him.

_“So, I know you have a soft spot for rescues like this one.”_ Pen’s voice drew him back to the present. _“Do you want to be on hand for the hand-off when we give Liberty to her veteran?”_

“Oh, God, yeah! Liberty was one of mine, Pen, I’d love to be there!” He put his phone on speaker and got out of bed. John pulled on a pair of denims and looked for a clean shirt, settling for a vest and jumper. “When do you want me?”

_“I’m picking Miss Liberty up from boarding at ten. Can I come pick you up before then?”_

“Uh, sure. That’ll be fine.” John took the call off of speaker and headed downstairs. By the sound of things, Sherlock was up already, if the idiot had ever gone to sleep in the first place, and he thought he smelled coffee. “I’m on Baker Street at the moment, so just come get me here.”

_“Oh, you didn’t have a case on New Year’s Eve, did you?”_

“Yeah, we did. Got the suspect, though.” He moved into the sitting room and looked for Sherlock. “Guess I’ll see you in three hours, Pen.”

_“Thanks again, John. Sorry about the last-minuteness.”_

“Nah, I said I’d help if you needed it, and veteran reunions are always fun. Thanks for calling.” John hung up with a yawn and took the cup of coffee handed to him with one foot through the door of the kitchen.

“Why on earth are you awake, John? You got three hours of sleep last night if that.”

“Sorry, got a call from Pen.”

“Oh? What’d he want?”

“Needs a hand with a reunion, I guess.”

“Oh. That was nice of him to ask you along.” Sherlock just smiled, “Are you hungry?”

“Famished. What’s on?”

“Bit of a proper fry-up. Sit down.” His flat-mate steered him to the table and he sat down. It was only a wait of a few minutes before a plate of food was set down.

“Keep forgetting you know how to cook.” John smiled, “This looks amazing.”

“You have a deficit to make up for, John. Rosemary would _kill_ me if she had any idea how poorly we’ve been eating the last week or so.”

“Too bad she’s used to it.” He chuckled as he thought of his fussy German housekeeper, who had made the move to Clifton Hill with them when they left Belgravia, and how she was constantly getting on Sherlock’s case about eating. “Where’s Greg?”

“Dead. Doubt I’ll see him before noon, at this rate.”

“Poor bloke.” John took a sip of coffee and set in on breakfast. “You got damn lucky with Greg, you know that, right?”

“Oh, of course I do.” Sherlock joined him with another plate and it was quiet for a while as they ate breakfast together and scoured the papers for cases. John thought back on everything he knew about Liberty, the dog he and Pen were returning to her veteran.

Liberty was a Nowzad Rescue who had been in the shelter for a while, but her number had finally come up a few months ago. The Nowzad Dogs Home Safe Trust had paid for all of Liberty’s veterinary care both in Afghanistan and state-side in England, and all of her transportation and boarding costs for the veteran who had befriended her in Afghanistan several years ago and decided it was time to give her a forever home.

John hadn’t gotten himself involved until more recently. He still didn’t know who the veteran in question was. It was probably one of his, if he had to guess, but he had never asked. It wasn’t really that important. All that mattered to him was that Liberty was finally going home. She had been one of his dogs, all those years ago. He was just glad to know that one of the soldiers had finally decided to bring her home properly.

“John?”

“Hmm?” He looked up to find Sherlock watching him. “What?”

“Which of your dogs is this?”

“Oh.” He swallowed his mouthful of toast. “Er, Liberty. You wouldn’t know her, I don’t think. She was one of mine in Afghanistan.”

“Liberty? This dog?” Sherlock did something on his phone and handed it to John. Displayed on the screen was a photograph of Liberty. It was a kennel-snap from Kabul.

“Oh. How did…”

“I keep track of the rescues just like you do, John. It’s really not that difficult.” Sherlock took a bite of egg, “Where is she right now?”

“Boarding. Uh, quarantine boarding. We’re going to go get her at ten and then take her home for good.”

“Do you know anything about the soldier she came home to?”

“No. I didn’t even know it was Liberty until Pen called about her just now.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter to me, all that matters is that she gets to go home to her soldier. And if it turns out it’s someone I know, that’s fine.”

“I find it hard to believe you _wouldn’t_ know Liberty’s soldier.” Sherlock just raised an eyebrow. John didn’t know, didn’t care to know, he’d find out soon enough.

The morning was spent on cold cases and updating their blogs, Sherlock played a bit on the violin. It was quiet until nine, when Pen sent a text with a very specific request.

 

**I know you’re @ Baker Street rn, but if you’ve got any of your uniforms handy, could you pull one out for me? – Pen**

John had to read the message twice. Yes, he had several, but why on earth did he need to wear one?

 

**Yeah, I’ve got a couple. What’s the occasion? – Jack**

**Liberty’s soldier was a major. I feel like it can’t hurt to dress up a bit for the occasion. – Pen**

**Right. Number? I’ve got a couple of 8s and I think a 2. – Jack**

**2 if you’ve got one, that’ll about do, I should think. You don’t have a 13 sitting around, do you? – Pen**

By that point, John was already upstairs and digging through his side of the closet. Damn. Where had they put his uniforms? He kept a few of each at both Baker Street and Clifton Hill, just for this very reason. Giving up on finding anything by himself, he went to the stairs and looked down.

“Sherlock!”

“What on earth are you looking for? You’ve been up there for ten minutes already!”

“Where the hell did we put my uniforms when I split my gear between the houses?”

“Oh! Those are in _my_ closet! Why do you need them?”

“Guess Liberty’s soldier’s an officer or something.” He tapped out a reply that he’d located his uniforms and would see about a 13, if not a 2 would have to do the trick for today.

 

**If you can find a 13, wear that. – Pen**

**What are YOU wearing, then? – Jack**

He sent back as he reached Sherlock’s bedroom to find that Sherlock had pulled down and laid out one of each of John’s uniforms.

 

**3C. I don’t hate myself THAT much. – Pen**

John sighed and located his Temperate Barrack Dress uniform. He had two berets and two pullovers to choose from. He finally settled on the grey-green v-neck pullover of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers and the green beret of the Commandos. As he buckled on his RAMC stable-belt, Sherlock looked him over.

“Why did you pick the green beret?”

“Because when I was attached to Pen’s Marines, I took the All Arms Commando Course.” He tugged on the bottom of his pullover and picked up the beret, “I earned the right to wear this the hard way.”

“You’re…”

“Yep.”

“Thought I knew everything about you, and you still manage to surprise me.” Sherlock smiled and adjust the set of his beret for him, “I had no idea.”

“I wasn’t head-hunted by MI-6 just because I was Armed Forces.”

“Well, obviously.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. John’s phone buzzed and he checked for new messages. There were two he had missed, both from Pen.

 

**Five mins out. – Pen**

**Here. Parked outside. – Pen**

“Oh, lord.” He sighed and looked at his watch. It was almost exactly nine-thirty. “Well, that’s that. I’ll be in touch, Sherlock, text if you need me.”

“Where are you going?”

“Airpets, if I had to guess, and then…wherever Liberty’s soldier lives.” He grabbed an MTP parka and made sure he had his phone, wallet, and keys. Sherlock handed over his Browning and followed him downstairs. Mrs Hudson poked her head out of A, drawn out by the commotion.

“What on earth are you boys up to? It’s barely ten!”

“Sorry for the noise, Mrs H! Pen has work for me.” John gave his landlady a quick kiss, “I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“You’re all dressed up, John! What’s the occasion?” She gave him a stern once-over, circling him carefully.

“One of my dogs is going home to her soldier today, Mrs Hudson. Pen asked me to come along.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, John! I’m so happy for you! Go on, then!” Mrs Hudson hustled him to the door and out to the street. Pen was waiting by his Rover, casually impatient.

“Well, aren’t you boys a fine sight! You be careful out there, hear me?”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson.”

“Good luck, boys!” She just smiled and waved as they got into the car. Sherlock stood on the stoop and watched until they were out of sight.

“So, where are we going?” John asked as they got on the M4.

“Airpets first. Then out to Richmond.”

“Are you going to tell me who it is?”

“No.”

“Figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.” He sighed and looked at his phone. Nothing from Irene, but he decided to let her know he’d picked up a job for Nowzad Dogs.

 

**Good morning, my love. I still miss you terribly. – JWA**

**What’s on your agenda for the day? Off somewhere exciting? – IWA**

**Not without you, dear. – JWA**

**Picked up a job for Nowzad Dogs this time. – JWA**

That, of course, got him a phone call. He answered as soon as her number came up.

“Hello, my dear.”

_“Where are you going this time?”_ She sounded intrigued.

“Nowhere terribly exciting, I promise. In fact, I have no idea where our final destination is.” He looked over at Pen, who just smiled at him. “Pen’s being all mysterious and weird.”

_“Well, do you know the name of the dog?”_

“Liberty. One of mine, she was part of Bréagha’s pack.”

_“Oh! Yes, I remember seeing her picture! She’s a gorgeous dog!”_ Irene was smiling now, he could hear it in her voice. _“But you have no idea who was lucky enough to bring her home?”_

“Not a bleeding clue. I guess I’ll find out when I get there. Must be somebody important, I left Baker Street wearing my Number 13 dress uniform.”

_“Aw, and you didn’t take a picture for me? John, you are worthless!”_

“Oh, I’ll have Moira take a picture for you.” He chuckled, “If it’s _really_ that important to you?”

_“Don’t be like that, you know it’s important. Send me a picture, will you?”_

“I promise.” He looked up as they made a specific turn. “I’ll let you know as soon as I’m on my way home.”

_“Be safe John. Give Liberty my love, will you?”_

“Absolutely!” He had no idea if Liberty even remembered what he looked like, he certainly didn’t look at all like he had the last time he’d seen the friendly street-dog.

“Well, here we are!” Pen pulled up and parked outside the quarantine kennels. “Come on, you.”

“Lead on.” John got out and pocketed his phone. Going inside, they greeted Thomas and Moira, who were happy to see them again and also a bit alarmed by their state of dress. Moira took them back to the proper enclosure and let them in. Liberty was, of course, thrilled to see people and they took her out to the paddock to give her a bit of a run. John did the running, she just sort of sat and looked up at Pen like he’d grown another head.

“Jesus, it’s been six years and she remembered!” He huffed when he got back to the gate with a happily winded Liberty on his heels. “Alright, you monster, let’s see about getting you home, then.”

“Oh, she’s just happy to see you, Captain!” Moira said cheerfully as they went back inside. Ten minutes later, they left with Liberty on her lead. Moira was more than happy to take a picture of John and Liberty, one of several it turned out.

“I’ve sent these along to her soldier, he was…a bit emotional when he realized you were the bloke in the pictures.” Pen admitted as they loaded Liberty into the back of the Rover.

“Wonder why.”

“You and him were close while you were in Afghanistan. I think he was one of your commanders.”

“That could be anyone. There aren’t many of my former commanders I still talk to.”

“Come on, let’s get this girl home.” Pen smiled and got them underway.

 

The thirty-minute commute from Heathrow to Richmond went by rather quickly, and Pen finally pulled up to a house on Marchmont Street. As he got Liberty out of the boot, John frowned. He knew this house. He hadn’t visited in years, but he definitely knew this house. Unless the man who had lived here before 2008 had moved, he also knew the resident.

“Um, Pen?”

“Come on, Jack. He’s not going to eat you alive.”

“Jesus Christ, I didn’t…”

“ _This_ is why I didn’t say anything. I know how you get when someone mentions Sholto.” Pen put a hand on his shoulder, “Let’s get this girl to her soldier, Captain.”

“Yes, er, right.” He cleared his throat and tightened his grip on the lead. Pen let him take the lead and followed him up to the front door of James Sholto’s house. Six years. Christ. Ringing the bell got them Sholto’s housekeeper, who promptly let them in and directed them to the back garden.

Pen decided to wait in the kitchen, to let John handle the reunion. He said it was important that John do the hand-off. Before going out the side door from the kitchen, John took a minute to study the man standing in the back garden with his back to the house. Well, at least if he had an episode, Sholto should remember what to do.

“Go on, Captain, he won’t bite.” Pen’s voice jolted him back to the present and he saw his Marine mate standing by the open door. “You need to do this, John.”

“Okay. Yeah. I can…um, I can do this. But…you realize it’s been six years?”

“Yep. Now get out there before I put a gun to your head and make you.”

“Yeah, and you would do, too, wouldn’t you?” John gave Pen a dirty look for that and shortened the lead a bit before he stepped outside again.

“Sergeant, why don’t you come with me?” Sholto’s housekeeper intervened a bit. “I’ve the kettle on, how about a cuppa in the sitting room? Leave those two to whatever business they’ve got with each other.”

“Oh, that would be lovely, Miss Finney. Thank you.” Pen smiled at the woman and followed her out of the kitchen, giving John a thumbs-up on his way out.

“Well, Liberty, come on. You and I have a date with destiny, it seems.” John sighed and looked down at Liberty, who was wondering what was wrong. He stroked her head. “It’s alright, girl. I’m just…nervous. Don’t worry about me.”

Stepping out of the house felt…monumental, somehow. Going around the house to the back garden proper, John stood a polite distance from his former commander. Sholto had been his first dominant, but not his last. Certainly one of his best, John had to admit. He just stood still for a minute before instinct and nerves had him going to his knees. The paving-stone patio was a bit slick from the weather, but he could deal with damp trousers.

“Liberty, sit.” He said quietly. Liberty, to her credit, sat immediately. Adjusting his grip on the lead, John rested his hands on his thighs. It was a matter of twisting a couple of loops of the lead to make up a rough set of wrist restraints. Once settled, John waited. He was rather good at that.

“Someone has maintained your protocol, Captain Watson.”

“My fiancée, Sir.” He raised his head at the sound of Sholto’s voice. “She’s a professional, see, had no problem taking me on when I needed direction.”

“Mm. Thought I heard about that.” A soft chuckle, “What’s her name, son?”

“Irene Adler, Sir. I know you’ve heard of her, if you’ve followed my blog at all.”

“Ah, that’s right. The Woman.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Hmm, I don’t believe I ever got the full story of how that happened.”

“If would like the full story, Sir, I would be very happy to make time to tell you properly.”

“I would like that.” Familiar footsteps, a bit of a shuffle because of old injuries but still steady. John kept his head down until he could see Sholto’s shoes.

“Are there rules, Captain?”

“No, Sir. You can…you are free to touch, Sir.” It broke his heart that Sholto even felt the need to _ask_ , but he knew why it was important. John belonged to someone else now, and Sholto was not going to touch what wasn’t his without permission. He would be happy to explain things to Irene if it came up, which it probably would as soon as he told her that his job with Nowzad Dogs had brought him into contact with his commander and first dom.

With permission granted, Sholto made contact. Neutral, safe, touching John’s shoulder first and getting used to the feel of his pullover under his fingertips, making his way to the scar that lay concealed under John’s clothes, the scar that had seen him dismissed from the Army and abandoned to civilian life in a city that just didn’t feel like home. The texture and length of his hair, much, _much_ longer now than it had been six years ago. The new scars and familiar ones as well on his face and hands.

After getting a feel for John, who knelt quietly and let him touch as he wished, Sholto turned his attention to Liberty.

“Hello, my beautiful girl. I’m so glad you’re home. I’m so glad my Captain brought you home to me.”

“Sergeant Farthing didn’t tell me anything but the dog’s name when he called me, Sir. He only said that Liberty was ready to go home to her soldier.” John looked up, “I knew he was up to something when he sent a text asking if I had access to any of my uniforms, and if I did, could I be bothered to pull one down?”

“And you said?”

“If I could find one of the bloody things.” He shrugged. Sholto held out one hand to him with a slightly crooked smile.

“Well, you must have found one, or you wouldn’t be wearing it.”

“I had to ask my flatmate where I keep them at Baker Street.”

“And how _is_ your flatmate?”

“Same as he ever was before 2011, Sir.” John got to his feet slowly, “I keep meaning to introduce you two, but he’s not very fond of strangers and trying to find _you_ is a bit of trouble.”

“I am sorry, John. I never meant to…”

“Don’t, don’t you dare.” John looked at his former commander, “That was not your fault. I thought you were _dead_ for almost nine months, James, because no one would tell me otherwise.”

“You were lucky to reach Germany alive, John, you should have _died_.”

“I almost did.” He looked at Liberty, “I’m glad I made it home, though. If I hadn’t I never would…”

“You’ve started working with Nowzad Dogs again, I see.”

“I’ve been working with them since 2011. I travel to Afghanistan occasionally to work at the shelter.”

“That’s very brave of you.”

“I don’t mind, it’s work I enjoy and just enough danger to keep me on my toes.” He smiled, “Irene _hates_ that. Calls me reckless.”

“Well, she would not be wrong about that.” Sholto shook his head, “Why don’t you come inside and we’ll do a bit of catching up? You can stay?”

“I…yes, I think I can stay a while. Pen might have to get back to his, but…I can stay.” John followed Sholto into the house. Pen stayed long enough for tea and a bit of catch-up, but he did have to get home to Tiverton, so he didn’t stay _that_ long. Making sure John didn’t need him to call a cab or something, he took off. John ended up staying for almost four hours, by the end of which time he had haltingly asked Sholto if he would come to the wedding, John wanted to invite him, and had gotten a “maybe”.

“I don’t venture out for much, but please send me an invitation.”

“Okay. I can do that, sure.” John smiled as they stood on the driveway together, waiting for Kate to arrive. Sholto had called Kate to have her come pick John up, deciding he didn’t quite trust any of the cabbies to be diligent enough.

“I’m glad you came down, John. I was…I missed you. Selfish of me, I know, but I did miss you terribly.” Sholto looked him over, “I’ve kept track of you through the media and your blog, which really is very entertaining, but I miss…you.”

“I’m in London and I’m not keen to leave anytime soon. You know how to find me, feel free to reach out to me.”

“Thank you, John.” Sholto’s smile was sad. “I hope Miss Adler knows just how lucky she is.”

“I’m the lucky one, but if it matters, we’re _both_ lucky.” He heard the car and sighed. “I’ll be in touch, James. Thank you for…well, everything.”

“Of course, John, it was my pleasure. And you’re the one who brought Liberty home to me.”

“Nowzad Dogs did the hard work, I’m just the delivery boy.”

“Oh, stop it.” Sholto shook his head, “Enough cheek from you, Captain.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Is Captain Watson giving you any trouble, Major Sholto?” And there was Irene. Of course she’d come along.

“Ah, Miss Adler.” Sholto smiled, “Your reputation precedes you. A pleasure, madam.”

“My pleasure, Major. And my honour, he speaks quite well of you.”

“Does he?”

“Absolutely.” Irene was beaming, “I had to do a bit of homework to learn exactly who you were to Captain Watson, but I have you to thank for laying the groundworks. I hope we’ll see you again?”

“That one won’t lay off unless I promise.” Sholto gave John a look, he just smiled at them.

“Feisty for a sub, isn’t he?”

“Oh, always has been.” Grey eyes brightened up a bit, “Do give me a ring if you ever need advice on handling, Miss Adler.”

“Of course I will.” Irene took Sholto’s hand and leaned up, kissing him on the cheek. “Thank you for looking after him for so long.”

“It was my pleasure, of course.” Sholto squeezed Irene’s hand and stepped back. “Captain, you listen to this woman of yours, she’ll never lead you wrong. Be good to her.”

“I know that, Sir.” John promised quietly, “We’ll be in touch.”

“Of course. Safe travels. And thank you, I keep saying it, but thank you.”

“It was my pleasure, Sir.”

“You’re a good man, Captain. You’re dismissed.”

“Sir.” John turned from Sholto, who had dismissed him, and got into the car behind Irene. As they pulled away, John didn’t miss how Sholto stood on the drive until they were out of sight.

“You’ve spoken several times of James Sholto, but I never thought I’d get to meet him,” Irene said as they turned a corner. John looked at his fiancée and smiled, taking her hand.

“James was my first dom, and until I met you, my best. He was…good to me.”

“I’m glad you had someone like him in your life. Do you think he’ll come to the wedding?”

“I asked him if he would, but I know public events like that aren’t really his favourite thing. But he told me to send him an invitation anyway, so…”

“Of course we’ll send him an invitation!” She linked their fingers together and rubbed her thumb across his knuckles. John just smiled and lifted their joined hands to kiss the back of hers. He didn’t deserve Irene, he just didn’t. She was patient, kind, firm when she had to be, and she loved him despite all of his flaws. He could spend hours, days, _weeks_ doing something and she trusted him to come back to her when it was over. Reuniting with James Sholto had been an unexpected bit of Providence, and John hoped they would be able to stay in touch.

“When we get home, I want you to take a shower. Set your uniform aside carefully, and take a shower. You’ve been away for a week and busy for three.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“And once you’ve looked after yourself a bit, I want you to sleep. I know you haven’t been sleeping as well.”

“Yes, Miss Adler. Thank you.” John did _not_ mind getting a few more hours of sleep, even if it was barely five in the evening. So, when they got back to Clifton Hill, he did exactly what she’d told him to do.

After taking a long, hot shower and shaving a few weeks’ beard-growth, he ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and drank two cups of tea before Irene sent him to bed to catch up on a few hours of lost sleep. John fell asleep buried in sheets that smelled like comfort and home, content to recover after spending a week on their last case and be at home with Irene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links to uniform types here:  
> British Army No. 13 Temperate Barracks Dress: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uniforms_of_the_British_Army#/media/File:Uni-UK-OF-No13barrack-York.svg
> 
> British Army No. 2 Temperate Parade Dress:  
> https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/d5/Uni-UK-OF-No2-York.svg/320px-Uni-UK-OF-No2-York.svg.png
> 
> Royal Marines Number 3C Dress "Half Lovats":  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uniforms_of_the_Royal_Marines#Number_3C_dress_'half_lovats'


	23. Bitter Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More casework for Baker Street, Sherlock tries to classify his relationship with Greg, there's introspection and an almost-panic attack. And there's a dog involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of angst here. Sorry.

* * *

* * *

After the excitement of solving a string of rather interesting cases that carried them into the New Year, Sherlock Holmes settled into the bizarre kind of domesticity that had developed at Baker Street during the past year. He saw plenty of John Watson and Irene Adler, John accompanied him on every one of his cases no matter if it was a private case or for The Met. And Greg Lestrade kept him quite well into cold cases and live cases alike from The Met. John had asked him to be the best man, which Sherlock had expected but had no idea how to fulfil. It was only natural that they ask him to do the job, considering he’d taken over planning nearly every aspect of the wedding itself.

One morning, Sherlock was awake before Greg. This happened rather more often than otherwise, he simply didn’t sleep the same hours other people did. He couldn’t. These days, his early hours were taken up with planning and details for John’s wedding. The Evidence Wall had become a staging area for all manner of wedding prep. He used it to sort out seating arrangements, guest lists and RSVPs, vendor contracts, sample menus, and the like. He had “mood-board” clusters of ideas for everything from flower-arrangements to wedding colours and coordination. There were venue blueprints with room layouts and capacity statistics. He also had a whole room in his Mind Palace dedicated to the wedding. It kept things organized. Sherlock found some enjoyment in organizing things to a greater end, some mutually beneficial project. It was something to keep him occupied, but he also enjoyed it. 

Sherlock had spent some time _in_ his Mind Palace when he was aware of external stimulus. It was Greg. What time was it?

“’Morning, Sunshine.”

“Good morning, Greg.” Sherlock opened his eyes and leaned his head back. He knew exactly where Greg liked to stand when he found Sherlock like this and smiled when he found him right behind him at the end of the couch. “What’s the time?”

“Just past seven. Get some sleep, did you?”

“While I was in my Mind Palace.” He tilted his head, studying his…what _was_ Greg to him?

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head a bit. “Well, nothing’s _wrong_.”

“Liar.” Greg smiled and leaned down, ruffling Sherlock’s hair with one hand and kissing him on the forehead, “What’s up?”

“It’s not important to anyone but me, and yet…” He sighed, “What are we, Greg?”

“Friends?”

“No, we’re more than that. What are we? We take care of each other. What does that make us?”

“Boyfriends?” Greg’s brown eyes twinkled, “Oh, Sherlock, you’re not stuck on our relationship again, are you?”

“No. Of course I’m not!” Said far too quickly. Greg just smiled patiently.

“Silly thing. Come on, up you get. Breakfast, shower, and we have work to do.”

“We do?”

“While you’ve been plotting and reshuffling seating-charts in your head, Donovan called.”

“She has something for us?”

“Said it was probably right up your alley, and could we sweet-talk John into coming along. She thought a secondary medical opinion might be useful.”

“I’ll text John, then.” Sherlock took Greg’s hand and got to his feet. Breakfast was quiet, he scrolled through emails and their blogs for cases, Greg read the papers. After a quick wash-up and hot shower, they got dressed for whatever the day had in store. Sherlock watched Greg fight with his tie, again, and smiled. His partner’s fashion sense had never suffered, but Sherlock had done his best to put Greg in clothes that suited him. He still preferred denims and rugby shirts on the weekends, but that was just fine. As he buttoned up his shirt with one hand, he composed and sent a text to John asking if he was able to join them. It was very rare John ever turned down a case, so when he got back an affirmative, he just showed the message to Greg.

“Great. Tell John we’ll be there in ten.” Greg straightened his tie and headed for the sitting room. Collecting coats, wallets, and phones, they set off. Greg grabbed his work-bag and slung it over one shoulder as he headed downstairs, Sherlock was right behind him. Shrugging into his Belstaff, he flipped the collar up. They managed to get out without waking Mrs Hudson, and Sherlock was careful to lock up once they were on the street. He took Greg’s workbag as they walked from Baker Street to the car-park three blocks away where Greg kept his car. With a grateful smile, Greg put his coat on and let Sherlock carry his bag.

Retrieving Greg’s car, they made the short commute to Clifton Hill. John was waiting on the kerb for them and simply hopped in as Greg slowed for him.

“What’ve we got, then?”

“Do you want the long version or the short?” Greg looked over his shoulder at John, who sat in the back seat while Sherlock rode shotgun.

“Okay, then _where_ are we?”

“Camden. Not _that_ far, but far enough.”

“Oh, great.” John rolled his eyes, “I can only imagine.” Sherlock snickered and let Greg do the talking.

 

When they got to the scene, Sherlock followed Greg with John at his side. No one bothered them, but there were whispers as always. Once he had seen the body, he started talking, everything he saw and processed was laid out. As Greg got his people started doing whatever they needed to do, Sherlock asked one more question.

“Where’s the dog?”

“The dog?” A couple of lingering constables exchanged a look and Greg frowned.

“What dog, Sherlock?”

“This one.” He picked up a framed photograph of a black dog with bits of grey and white in the fur. Age, not necessarily breed alone. It was a mixed-breed, but a handsome one.

“Oh, um. Branston, did anyone see a dog?” Greg turned to the constables.

“No, sir, and the neighbours didn’t say anything about it either.”

“Ask again, get the dog’s name, and search the whole house.” Greg looked around the bedroom containing the scene, “Considering the way the victim was killed, I can see a number of things happening. I just hope I’m wrong.”

“We’re not leaving until we have a lead on the dog’s whereabouts,” Sherlock said quietly, but firmly.

“Sherlock,” John warned.

“We are not _leaving_ until we have a lead on the dog’s whereabouts.” He only repeated himself. “Did I stutter, Captain Watson?”

“Take it easy, Holmes.” His flatmate just gave him a familiar look.

Sherlock hated when animals got involved in a crime scene, or were victims of a crime. He loved animals, dogs especially, had owned one as a child. His work with the charity Nowzad Dogs was purely personal, there was no other reason for it. He loved dogs and was happy to ensure the safety and welfare of strays in a different country by providing financial assistance as needed.

He joined the search of the house for the dog, John came with him. They found nothing in any of the other rooms in the house, questioning neighbours raised no leads on the dog’s potential extant whereabouts. Just as he was about to give up hope of finding the dog in good health or anytime soon, Sherlock decided to check the master bedroom one more time.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” Greg asked carefully as he paced the perimeter of the room before approaching the bed.

“Shh.” He held up one hand and listened as it got quiet. The only sound he could hear was the soft breathing of John behind him and Greg nearby. But there was something else. Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock took a gamble. Pursing his lips, he whistled softly and snapped his fingers.

“Sherlock.”

“Shh!” He held up one hand and cocked his head. Under the bed? Moving slowly, he dropped to his knees and raised the bed-skirt just enough to peek under the bed. There was room there for an animal or child to hide themselves.

“I need a torch.” He called quietly. John handed him a torch one of the constables had given him and he flicked it on. The beam caught on a dark shape huddled under the bed in the corner and he raised an eyebrow. Another sweep revealed a pair of eyes.

“Oh, _there_ you are.” He breathed out, “Thank Christ. Come here, you! Come on!” He whistled again and saw the dog move. “Come on, we’re friends, come on out of there.”

“Sherlock?”

“I found the dog.” He looked over his shoulder at John, “Hid under the bed.”

“Oh my god.” John’s eyes widened. He joined Sherlock and leaned down to get a look for himself. “Sherlock, budge over!”

“Greg, can you find a lead for the dog? We’ll get it out from under the bed for you.”

“Should we call animal control?”

“Not just yet.” He shook his head and looked over at John just in time to see him disappear under the bed. “John, what … ”

“Hold my feet!”

“Why?”

“Just do it!”

“You’re mental.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and took hold of John’s ankles. He heard John’s voice and realized he was speaking to the dog. But not in English.

“Are you ... talking to the dog, John?”

“Yep.”

“Right.” But in what language?

Greg was back in no time with a lead and a harness. Sherlock held onto them and leaned over to get a look under the bed.

“John?”

“Okay, give me a minute. Pass me the lead, will you?”

“Here.” He pushed the lead under the bed and watched it disappear. A minute later, John twitched his left foot.

“Pull me out!” He called. Sherlock let him flip over carefully onto his back and pulled him out from under the bed. Once he was free, John sat up. He had the lead in both hands. Turning onto his knees again, he leaned down and whistled.

“C’mon, Sadie. That’s a good girl. Come on out!” He kept his voice soft and there was a commotion under the bed. A moment later, a black head popped into view. The rest of the dog followed quickly as John and Sherlock helped get her out.

“Oh.” Sherlock breathed. He’d thought the dog looked familiar when he found the pictures, but he hadn’t known why. But now he did. “John, we should call Pen about this. I can’t think of anyone else who would even know what to do.”

“Go ahead and make the call, Sherlock.” John just nodded. Sherlock felt a little sick to his stomach as he got to his feet and fetched his phone out of his pocket. As he dialled a certain number, Greg put a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey. What’s going on, Sherlock?”

“That dog is one of Nowzad Dogs’ rescues.” Sherlock looked over at his … boyfriend? What _was_ Greg to him? “She must have been adopted by a civilian family, no one in this house is military.”

“This is Sadie. She wasn’t one of mine, but she’s definitely one of our dogs.” John said quietly as he stroked the dog’s head.

“Oh, Christ.”

“So, please just … oh, hold that.” The call had clicked over and he took a deep breath.

 _“This is Farthing.”_ Pen’s standard salutation, that was almost comforting.

“Good morning, Pen, it’s Sherlock Holmes. I’m sorry to bother you.”

 _“Oh! Hey, Sherlock.”_ God bless Pen Farthing, he always sounded so happy to hear from them. “ _No, no problem! What’s on?_ ”

“Um, I had a question about one of our rescues.” Sherlock looked over at John as he sat cross-legged on the floor with Sadie, who was seeking out reassurance and affection from the veteran.

_“Oh, sure! Who is it?”_

“I need whatever you can give me on a rescue named Sadie. Female dog, mixed-breed, fairly well-on in her years but not a senior yet.” He rocked on his heels, “I think she may only be eight or nine years old, her muzzle is a bit grey.”

_“Sure, I keep records of all our rescues. Give me a bit and I’ll have everything for you. Do you want me to bring it to you?”_

“That’s an awful lot of driving for you, Pen.”

_“I don’t mind the drive. Besides, I have a pick-up at Airpets, so I’ll be out your way at any rate. I can definitely stop by Baker Street while I’m up there.”_

“Well, if it’s not _too_ much trouble.” He sighed and wondered how much pretty asking it would take to convince Greg to let him keep Sadie at Baker Street until they could figure out what to do with her.

_“Not at all. I’ll text when I’m on my way from Heathrow, then?”_

“Yes. Thank you, Pen. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

_“And it’s important? I’ll get the story another day. You get back to whatever you were doing before you called me and I’ll see you in a few hours, alright?”_

“Alright.” Sherlock smiled, “See you in a few hours, Pen. Thank you for this.” He hung up first and pocketed his phone.

“Well?” Greg was nearby, “What’s the verdict?”

“He has a pick-up at Heathrow and it’s not that much further to come up to Baker Street, so he’ll drop the file off at Baker Street before heading for his final destination.”

“Oh. That’s nice of him.” Greg looked down at John and Sadie. “What about Sadie? I don’t … ”

“I know.” Sherlock took Greg’s hand, not caring that anyone might see. “You wouldn’t get into any trouble for keeping her, would you?”

“Oh, Jesus, no! Keeping her at the office isn’t ideal, but better than handing her off to Animal Control!”

“Does that mean we can take care of this lady until we figure out what to do with her?” John asked, getting up carefully.

“Absolutely.” Greg gave him a hand up. “Can I convince you two to come in for your reports?”

“Of course.” Sherlock smiled and thought that if he played his cards just right, he might be able to keep Sadie. That would be nice, he had wanted a dog of his own for some time and arranging play-dates with Bréagha would be fairly simple.

So, with that bit of business handled, they turned the scene over to the rest of the team and went back to Greg’s office to file their reports. It was marked in the reports that the victim’s pet had been taken by “police personnel” until further notice. It didn’t seem very likely any surviving family would put up much of a fight to take Sadie back, the victim had been newly divorced and had gotten the dog in the settlement. The poor thing probably hadn’t been very happy before, and she deserved a proper home to live out the rest of her years.

 

Once they had things squared away at The Met, Greg drove them back to Baker Street. Sherlock had texted Mycroft with a specific request and was pleased to find that everything had been delivered to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson took one good look at the picture of Sadie Sherlock showed her and just smiled patiently, shaking her head a bit.

“Am I going to need a pet agreement, Sherlock?”

“You might as well, Mrs Hudson.” He pocketed his phone again, “I think Sadie will be coming to live with us.”

“Of course she is.” Mrs Hudson just patted him on the cheek and sent him upstairs. “You’re a good one, Sherlock Holmes, got a good soul.” Sherlock kissed his patient landlady on the cheek and went upstairs. John was fixing tea, so he unpacked and set up the equipment Mycroft had kindly delivered for them. After arranging everything to his liking, putting a pet-bed in the sitting room and in the back bedroom, setting the food-bowls down in the kitchen, Sherlock picked up a cold-case file and got some work done.

Pen came by as promised about two hours later and Sherlock went down to meet him. John, of course, tagged along.

“Took a bit of hunting, but I found all of my records on Sadie for you.” Pen handed over a stack of files, “You might have to do some hunting of your own for the rest, her adopter would have papers as well.”

“I put the word out to Greg’s team to look for that kind of paperwork at the house. I think Sergeant Donovan will take care of it.” Sherlock flipped through the first file quickly.

“I like Donovan, she’s definitely good people.” Pen smiled.

“Where are you off to next, then?”

“Got two drop-offs for adopters here in London, so this wasn’t too far out of my way.”

“Oh?” Sherlock looked at John. That was good news to hear that more of the rescues had found homes.

“Couple of our cats. Want to take a look?” Pen was already heading for the boot of his car.

“You have to ask?” Sherlock was right behind him. “Who do we have going home, then?”

“Say hello to Fluffy and Yaran.” Who shared a cage. Two carriers were on hand for transfer from the car to their forever homes, but at the moment they were happily confined to a transport-cage.

“Where are they going?” John asked as he got the cage open and coaxed one of the cats out for a bit of a fuss. “And who is this?”

“That’s Fluffy. He’s going to a home in Kensington. The other one is Yaran, _he_ gets to go home to Islington.”

“Well, aren’t you a gorgeous boy.” John smiled and picked the aptly-named Fluffy up. “I hope you’re going to a good owner who will spoil you properly rotten.”

“Apparently, that one’s a bit of a Valentine’s Day gift.” Pen smiled as John found his arms full of a very content bundle of cat. “Some bloke in Kensington is giving him to his girlfriend for the occasion.”

“Oh, that’s very generous of him!”

“Apparently, she had a cat and something happened to it. Got out and got hit by a car, I think is what he said happened. So … ” Pen shrugged a bit. Sherlock could only imagine how heartbreaking that must have been for the couple.

“Well, I should think Fluffy will make a fine replacement for the deceased.” He said as he reached out one hand to give the cat some attention. Fluffy was a long-hair breed with white or crème-coloured fur.

“That’s what we were thinking.”

“We won’t keep you any longer, you’ve important deliveries to make.” John carefully returned Fluffy to the cage and secured the door. “Thanks for coming by, Pen.”

“I was already in London, and it seemed pretty important, urgent. What happened?”

“Short version is that a nasty divorce turned violent and the husband ended up dead. He got the dog in the settlement, she was unharmed. We found her hiding under the bed.” John looked at Sherlock, “I think she’ll probably come live at Baker Street if this one has any say in things.”

“Good thing you two were there, huh?” Pen looked sad, “Where is Sadie right now?”

“Staying with Greg at the office until he can get off and bring her home.” Sherlock sighed, “I wanted to bring her home, of course, but that wasn’t possible right away.”

“She’ll be in a good home here.” Pen held out one hand, “Good luck, lads.”

“Thanks again, Pen. See you ‘round.” Sherlock had no problem shaking hands with Pen and waved as he set off for his deliveries. Once the familiar Rover was out of sight, Sherlock put one hand on John’s shoulder.

“John?”

“Let’s pack up whatever we have upstairs in B and head over to Clifton Hill. Something tells me you need to spend time around Bréagha.” John just looked at him with more understanding than Sherlock thought he deserved. There was no pity, however, just understand and concern. From someone like John, who had put up with so much and still came back to him, it was not a gesture scorned.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock tried to smile, but he couldn’t.

Going upstairs to 221B, they packed up a few of the current cases being worked on. He would come back tonight, so he didn’t pack more than his laptop and files. When they left, Mrs Hudson just waved them off and told them to be careful.

“Yes, Mrs Hudson!” They called in unison as they stepped out of the house. John locked up and joined him.

“Feel up to a bit of a stroll?” He looked up at the sky.

“Sure. You need to sort a few things?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.” John smiled and took his hand. “Come on, you.” Sherlock followed his old flat-mate up the street. He knew John would keep him on track and let him lead the way. They were approximately halfway between Baker Street and Clifton Hill when John stopped him.

“What?”

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?”

“I don’t know. It’s too ... loud. I don’t know what to do, John.”

“You’re not going to panic, are you?”

“Might.”

“Alright, hang on a second.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, “I can’t handle you, and it’s not safe to keep walking. Let me ... ” John thrust one hand out and flagged down a passing taxi.

“Get in, Holmes.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Sherlock climbed into the taxi and waited for John to join him. “88 Clifton Hill, please. Direct route.”

“Yes, sir.” The cabbie looked over his shoulder at them and gave Sherlock a kind smile. “Hard case, was it, sir?”

“Turned into one.”

“Ah, don’t worry, it’ll work itself out, sir.” The cabbie got them underway. Sherlock took John’s hand out of instinct, not caring if anyone saw or what they might think. This wasn’t just Sadie’s fate, this was Sherlock’s own future happiness. And he didn’t know what to do. His brief conversation with Greg that morning had stayed with him and the fact that it was Valentine’s Day didn’t help at all. He wasn’t _alone_ , but not knowing how to classify his relationship bothered him. But that was for later, he had to focus right now. Maybe Irene could help him.

* * *

* * *


	24. More Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr Holmes pays a visit to Miss Adler. John gets an evening out with Irene for Valentine's Day.

* * *

* * *

When they got to Irene’s house, John paid the fare and got them into the house. Closing the door behind them, Sherlock instinctively set the locks.

“Kate! Irene!”

“Sherlock!” Rosemary found them first. “What happened?”

“Is Irene here?”

“Yes, she’s in the sitting-room.” Rosemary looked up at Sherlock, her concern very clear. “Are you alright, dear?”

“No, Rosemary. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me! Go find Miss Adler and I’ll bring you tea. Go.” Rosemary ushered them to the sitting room and announced them to Irene, who was on her feet in an instant.

“John! Sherlock! What happened? Are you two alright?”

“We’re fine, Irene.” John looked at Sherlock, guiding him to a chair. “Sherlock just needs to refocus.”

“Why?”

“One of our rescues was ... found at the last scene we were on.”

“Oh no.” Irene knew how important Nowzad Dogs was to Sherlock, how much the safety of its rescues meant.

“The dog’s alive, she’s with Greg right now.” John went to Irene once he had Sherlock situated. “I brought Sherlock here to give him time to refocus.”

“That was smart, John. Are _you_ alright?”

“Yes, Irene.” He kissed her on the cheek. “He needs this.”

“Once he’s calmed down a bit, I’ll take him downstairs.” Irene studied Sherlock, reading his body language and unspoken signals. “Mister Holmes.”

“Yes, Miss Adler?” Sherlock’s voice was muffled in Bréagha’s fur. Bréagha had made herself known to Sherlock and it was heartbreaking to watch the pair try to fit themselves into the chair together.

“Look at me, Mister Holmes.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” Sherlock raised his head just enough to make eye contact as she approached him carefully.

“Number, Mister Holmes?”

“Three, Miss Adler. I need ... quiet. I don’t need pain, I need distraction.”

“Very well, Mister Holmes.” Irene smiled and ran her fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “You know the rules, Mr Holmes. Once you’re ready, go downstairs to The Room and undertake your preparations.”

“Yes, Miss Adler. Thank you.” Sherlock leaned into the touch. It was instinct. John knew they were lucky there was someone who could handle Sherlock. Because as bad as John could get, Sherlock was just as bad or worse. And Irene knew exactly how to handle him, she was willing to take care of him when he asked for it. And he _had_ to ask for it.

Rosemary brought tea and biscuits and left them to their business with a worried look at Sherlock, and it was quiet for a while. When their cups were empty and Sherlock had eaten two biscuits, they went downstairs. John helped Sherlock undress and get situated in The Room.

“Do you want restraints, Sherlock?”

“Yes. Please, John.”

“Alright.” He moved to the wardrobe where all of the toys were stored and found a few items they could potentially make use of. In the end, a body binder restraint, a pair of handcuffs, and a blindfold did the trick. When John left The Room, he left Sherlock on his knees. Before he left, he kissed Sherlock.

“I’m sorry, Holmes. Let Irene help you now.” He stroked his boffin’s hair and pulled away.

“Thank you, Watson.” Sherlock raised his head and listened as John left the room. He had a white-noise generator running to provide a bit of background noise for Sherlock, and hoped that Irene could help him.

John went out to the kitchen, sent Irene back to The Room to look after Sherlock, and sat down when Rosemary told him to. She made him a sandwich and then sent him upstairs after he had eaten. His watch told him it was 4:40, but it seemed later. It had been a long day, and he had plans for the evening, so John set an alarm on his phone and took a nap.

 

Two hours later, his alarm sounded and he shut it off. He headed for the bathroom, adding his clothes to the laundry hamper, and took a hot shower. He shaved as well, he’d gotten a bit scruffier than he generally liked. As John was getting dressed, Irene came in. She had that look about her and he held out one hand to her.

“How was it?”

“Two hours of kneeling and ten strokes of the crop.”

“Thank you, Irene.” He pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. “Did you send him home?”

“Just now. He was in much better condition.” She leaned her head back a bit and looked at him, her eyes dark. “John, what _happened_?”

“The case we took with Greg today was for a homicide. It was fairly standard until Sherlock mentioned the dog.”

“And the response to _that_ was “What dog?”.”

“Right. We didn’t even know there _was_ a dog, none of us had seen one. So that was an hour spent questioning neighbours and searching the house and nearby vicinity for a dog that looked like Sadie. That’s her name, Sadie.” He buttoned the collar of his shirt and picked up the waistcoat. “We found her, eventually.”

“Where?”

“Under the bed in the master suite, of all places. She might have tried to protect her master and then taken cover either because he told her to or she just decided to bail.” He still remembered the heart-wrenching five minutes he’d spent wedged under the frame and mattress talking to Sadie and calming her down enough to let him put a lead on her, stroking her ears and neck, rubbing her muzzle as he spoke to her in Farsi.

“Was _she_ hurt at all?”

“No, she wasn’t. Scared half to death, but not hurt at all.” He turned as she touched his shoulder and saw the length of silk in Irene’s hand.

“Allow me, Captain.” She said softly as she looped the tie around his neck and knotted it properly.

“You know, this is our second Valentine’s Day together.”

“Yes, it is.” Irene just smiled up at him, “Second of many, _many_ more to be had.”

“Indeed. Also, I do believe this is our last holiday together as an engaged couple.” He let her adjust the tie a bit.

“Oh?”

“Hmm. The next time we celebrate any holiday of note, we’ll be married.”

“Married life.” Irene made a face, “I never, _ever_ thought I would get married.”

“I did, but not to someone like you. Not to someone as beautiful, and deadly, and intelligent as you.” John took her hands in his and studied the ring he had given her a year ago. Christ, had it really been that long? Oh, it felt like just _yesterday_.

“Lucky me?”

“Lucky me. Lucky _us_.” He corrected. “Irene, you saved my life, I’m not sure if you even understand what that means. When you sent me that text, I had nothing. I had my backpack, the clothes I’d worn the day I was arrested, and nothing else. I’m not even sure I had money in my wallet.”

“I do know what that means, you almost committed suicide the next morning because I was ignorant to your needs and trusted you to be reasonable about something I never should have asked you to do alone.”

“I never held you responsible for that, ever. I never will. I was in a bad place.”

“I’ll say.” She looked up at him, “John, getting that phone-call from Kate was terrible, I thought you were already dead. She had to physically confront me to convince me otherwise.”

“And I got off easy for pulling the idiot stunt of the century.”

“No, Sherlock pulled the idiot stunt of the century in 2011, you were desperate.”

“And here you came into my life like an angel.”

“Never, ever do that to me again, John, please don’t.”

“I haven’t wanted to,” John promised.

If anyone in London knew the intimate details of John’s dark side, it would be the woman standing in front of him right now. Irene had seen him at his worst and stayed. She had pulled him out of his worst slumps and helped him get back on his feet. Anyone else would have abandoned him for the woods, and many had. But Irene wouldn’t leave him, she refused to cut him out, cut him off. And then John had decided it was a good idea to propose to her, on New Year’s Eve of all nights. He didn’t regret that decision, even after Sherlock had come back into his life.

“Get out of your head, right now.” Irene touched his jaw, “I’m going to take a shower and get dressed, just wait for me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” John smiled and pulled her close, “I’m sorry I do that.”

“I’m here to keep you company, my dear. I knew exactly what I was getting into when I said yes to you.” She smoothed the material of the tie between her fingers, “Now, go wait for me. I won’t be long.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He kissed her before letting her go.

 

It was another two hours before they left, but that was fine. John handed Irene into the waiting car after being hustled out of the house by Rosemary. Kate drove them to the restaurant and dropped them off, promising to be back for them in three hours.

“Ta, Kate. Take off. Give Anthea our love?”

“Roger that, Captain!” Kate gave him a bright smile as he basically told her to take the rest of the night off.

“Have fun, dear.”

“I plan to!” Her eyes were bright. “I do believe I have a take-out and champagne date with Anthea!”

“Film night?”

“Oh, absolutely!”

“What is it this time?” He had to ask, the girls had such unusual taste in date-night movies.

“Lord of the Rings. We’re starting from the top and going all the way to the end!”

“Good choice.”

“The _extended_ versions!” Kate giggled and leaned against the frame of the car.

“Holy Christ, you’ll be up until five am!” He shook his head, “You’re starting with The Hobbit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, my god. Alright, you mad thing!” He pushed away from the car, “Go fetch up your deadly girlfriend and I’ll get the details whenever I see you again.”

“Laters!” Kate chirped as she took off. John just shook his head as Irene tugged on his arm.

“She _likes_ you, John.”

“Took me a few months to realize it.” He chuckled and steered Irene towards the door of the restaurant. A watchful server popped out, holding the door for them with a bit of a flourish and a friendly smile.

“’Evening, Doctor Watson!”

“Good evening, Billy.” John smiled at the young man who had been working at the restaurant nearly as long as John had been coming. “Busy night, is it?”

“A bit, but not awful. Got your table ready for you!”

“Ah, ta for that.” He chuckled as they entered Angelo’s Ristorante.

“May I take your coats, Doctor Watson?” Billy was at his elbow.

“Thank you, Billy.” John handed over his coat and Irene’s as they reached their reserved table. Billy removed the “reserved” plaque and took their coats away. It wasn’t long before Angelo came by and insisted on hugging both of them.

“So good to see you again, Watson! How are you?”

“Been properly busy, Angelo. Sherlock says he promises to come by soon.”

“Good! I miss that boy! All that trouble! I’m so glad he came back.”

“So am I, Angelo. So am I.” John smiled and sat down again. Angelo just beamed at them and whisked off again, telling them not to worry about anything. Five minutes passed before he came back with a bottle of the restaurant’s best white wine and a gorgeous red rose for Irene.

“Don’t worry about Sherlock, John. He’ll be fine.” Irene said quietly, taking his hand in hers.

“I know, but I have to worry about him.” He sighed, knowing it was silly to worry about a grown man who could handle himself and usually get out of whatever trouble he found himself in. Irene just smiled and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

After a lovely, much-needed night out, John and Irene returned to Clifton Hill and turned off their phones for the night. Rosemary just smiled like she knew something. She sent them off with a sly warning to behave themselves. Routine took only minutes and when Irene wanted to cuddle for a while, John was happy to accommodate. Cuddling led to foreplay led to some frankly amazing sex, it usually was with Irene.

Two hours later, John lay on his back as he recovered from another round. Irene was in the bathroom taking care of business, he could barely move.

“Still with me, Captain?” her voice was close and he felt the mattress sink under her weight.

“Ugh.”

“I’ll take that as a no.” She chuckled and leaned over him, “I wore you out proper, didn’t I?” John squinted at his fiancée.

“Yeah, you did.”

“I apologize for nothing. Think you’ll sleep well tonight?”

“After _that_? Oh, I’ll sleep like a charm!” John sighed and reached for Irene. She just smiled as she leaned down to kiss him, slow and quiet. It didn’t take long for him to drift off to sleep. He would sleep well, and he wasn’t as worried about Sherlock as he had been. A long, typically bizarre day had ended well.

* * *

* * *

 


	25. The Best Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is still having trouble defining his relationship with Greg, and what exactly it is he WANTS out of the relationship. Sometimes it takes an outside perspective to bring everything into focus properly. It ends...well.

* * *

* * *

Sherlock’s uncertainty about his precise relationship with Greg, what they _were_ , stayed in his awareness for weeks. It drifted along in the background, colouring everything he did, said, and saw. Only the most observant, only those who _knew_ him would have noticed. He knew they noticed, but he was grateful none of them really said anything of it.

John and Irene were supportive and kind. He noticed when text-messages stopped coming as often, when conversation steered away from the wedding. But _planning_ the wedding was almost therapeutic for Sherlock. He wanted John to be happy, to have an absolutely beautiful special day. And _he_ wanted to be the one to plan it out for John. It was a way of apologising for the madness of the years he had been gone and proving to his amazing partner that he _cared about_ John Watson the way he cared for no one else.

 

It came to a head one quiet afternoon when he was at Saint Bart’s in the chemistry labs with Greg and John and Molly stopped by to give him something he had asked for.

“Hello, boys!” She chirped as she shouldered her way into the lab, her hands full with a stack of files and a specimen tray.

“Heya, Molls!” John was on his feet in a hurry as Sherlock looked over from the microscope he’d hijacked for this trip. “Need a hand?”

“Oh, thanks, John! Hi, Sherlock!”

“Hello, Molly.” Sherlock raised his head and smiled at the sweet pathologist who was one of his dearest and most valued friends. She had been so instrumental in helping him back in 2011, had done so much without asking for more than the necessary facts. She set the files and tray down next to him, careful not to disturb what he was actively working on, and he saw something reflecting light. What was that?

As she turned away, she raised one hand to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear and he got an excellent view of the object. It was a ring, on her left hand, on the ring finger. Sherlock knew what that meant. It was beautiful, tasteful, and surprisingly _subtle_. Of course, Mycroft would have chosen something Molly could wear at work without worry of losing it. Well, that certainly explained a few things. He wasn’t certain when or how Molly and his brother had met, or how it had gone from acquaintances to dating. But he was happy for Mycroft because it was obvious his brother cared very, _very_ deeply for Molly and did whatever it took to make her happy. And yet, under the happiness he felt, Sherlock felt something sharp and cold. Jealousy? Bitterness. Something awful and inappropriate.

“Sherlock, we’re starving.” John interrupted his train of thought and he looked up.

“What’s that?”

“Greg and I are hitting up the canteen. I know we can’t drag you away from that, want us to bring something back for you?”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked, refocusing on John’s inquiry. “Yes, please. Something simple should do, I think.”

“Yeah, yeah. Trust me, Sherlock, if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s your eating habits.” John smiled and ruffled Sherlock’s hair as he passed behind his perch. “Be back in a bit. Don’t get too lost in your head while we’re gone.”

“Oh, but you’ll get me out anyway, won’t you, Watson?” He gave John a sad smile.

“Part of my job description, my dear Holmes.” John’s smiled softened and Sherlock watched the pair leave together, heads together, talking about who knows what. Football, most likely. Molly ducked out for a bit, but she returned quickly with more files. Sherlock let her sit down nearby, knowing she liked working alongside him like this. She did her work, he did his, sometimes they talked.

“You can lie to John and Greg, but you can’t lie very well, Sherlock,” Molly said quietly after a while.

“I’m sorry.” He blinked and turned his head for a moment. She looked at him, her gaze wise and understanding.

“You look sad when you think no one can see you. You stop smiling when people turn away from you.”

“Oh. Observant thing, aren’t you, Hooper?”

“I _have_ to be! I know you, don’t I? You taught me a lot of what I know, Sherlock, that’s not for nothing.” Molly scribbled a few notes on the chart in her hand, “But I don’t understand _why_ you’re sad. You’ve been like this for nearly a month.”

“I don’t suppose my brother tries to brush you off, does he?”

“He tries, doesn’t always succeed very well.” Molly blushed, “Says I’m too nosy for my own good but that’s fine with him. The only secrets he can’t share with me are the important ones. I don’t _need_ to know.”

“My brother is a very lucky man. I hope he knows that.” Sherlock focused on his experiment. “When did he ask you, if you don’t mind me being a bit nosy myself?”

“Oh! Well, er, um. You’re never going to believe this, it was _so_ cliché and disgustingly romantic! I cried.”

“Did he panic?”

“Oh, yes.” Molly smiled. “He asked me on Valentine’s Day. We had dinner at The Landmark that night and when we got home, he had this...present for me.”

“My brother can be a bit...extravagant with his gifts.” Sherlock had to smile, it was hard not to. “I assume to compensate for something else, such as keeping state secrets or spending too much time for _anyone’s_ good in foreign countries.”

“Who knows, but let me tell you what, I was _not_ expecting to find _this_ in the gift-box he handed me!” Molly had her phone up and was doing something with it. “Here, take a look! His name is Fluffy, I have _no_ idea where Mycroft got him, but he’s fantastic!” Sherlock took the phone and looked at the image on the screen. It was a gift-box inside which some kind of fabric had been laid down as bedding for the contents. The _live_ contents. Sitting in the box, looking both rather annoyed and all at once content, was a large, fluffy white cat. Sherlock recognized the cat right away.

“That’s...Molly, I _know_ this cat!”

“You do?”

“I saw it on Valentine’s Day! Fluffy was one of our rescues!”

“Oh my goodness! From Afghanistan!” Molly’s eyes widened, “Oh, I didn’t think of that! That’s amazing!”

“I’m so glad he went to you and Mycroft.” Sherlock shook his head, “That cat will be quite spoilt the rest of his days.”

“Don’t tell Mycroft I snitched on him about falling asleep with Fluffy on his chest.” As she swiped to another picture of Mycroft doing just that very thing. It looked like the couch in his sitting room, the one most people who came to that house never saw. It was rare he saw Mycroft so relaxed, so unguarded.

“I would love to know how you melted my brother’s heart of ice, Molly Hooper, you marvel.” Sherlock sighed. “I’ve never seen him so... _happy_. He’s different now.”

“That’s what everyone else who’s ever had a thing to do with him has said. Many times.” Molly fiddled with the ring. “He had somehow tied the box to Fluffy’s collar, and when I opened it, he...asked me to marry him.”

“And you said yes.”

“Of course I did.” Molly looked over her notes, “Your brother is so different from what I was expecting.”

“He likes you, Molly. He’s...nicer to people he likes. I wonder how you got his attention.”

“Probably a long time before you had to go head-to-head with Moriarty. He knew my name, everything about me, when I met him at the funeral.”

“Oh, Mycroft. Please tell me you hit him for being a pompous git?”

“I might have.”

“Thank you. He can be very rude sometimes.”

“I told him that. He apologized and offered to make it up to me, though he wasn’t quite certain how he might be able to.”

“Well, you must have given him another chance.”

“I did, mostly out of curiosity. Also, I was quite lonely and thought I might do well to have some company.”

“So you let my brother try to woo you. Either brave or desperate.”

“Both, I should think.” Molly shrugged, tilting her head. “What about you, though, Sherlock?”

“Eternal confirmed bachelor Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, don’t be like that!” Molly made a face and kicked at him under the bench.

“I can’t help feeling a bit left out of things.” Sherlock sighed, knowing it was selfish and silly to be upset about something he really shouldn’t care about at all.

“Have you _said_ anything about this?”

“Not those exact words.”

“Sherlock, you can’t...oh, sweetheart.” Molly had seen the twitch and got up. “You have to _talk_ to us! We tell you that every single time! Talk. To. Us. We want to help.”

Sherlock leaned against Molly as she hugged him. She smelled good, there was a cleanness to her scent. Lemon verbena from her body-wash to get the smell of the morgue out of her skin and hair after a long day at work, and the subtle but noticeable musk of Mycroft’s specific cologne. There was something comforting about it.

“Sherlock, talk to Greg. Tell him what you just told me.” Molly rubbed the back of his neck, “Promise me?”

“I can’t!”

“Sherlock Holmes, listen to me.” She pushed him back and made him look up at her. “Yes, you can.”

“But...Molly, _when_?”

“You’ll know.” She smiled and touched his cheek, “Don’t worry, you’ll know. You’re a good man, Sherlock, and you are never, _ever_ alone.”

“Thank you, Molly.” He sighed and wondered if he had actually shed tears. “I cried, didn’t I?”

“Just a bit. Go wash up.” She pulled him to his feet and kissed him on the cheek before shoving him out the door. Sherlock ducked into the gents and washed his face. After wasting as much time as he felt comfortable, Sherlock went back to the lab. John and Greg had returned by then and were chatting by the bench. He could see the tray sitting by his station and smiled. Hospital food had nothing on Rosemary’s cooking, but it would do in a pinch.

“Lunch?” He asked as he sat down.

“Yep. It’s not much, but it’ll do you for a few hours.” John pushed the tray towards him. On the tray was a bag of crisps, a cup of tea, and a ham and cheese sandwich.

“Quite a few hours. Thank you, John.” Sherlock unwrapped the sandwich and took a few minutes to eat, listening to John and Greg talk to Molly about...something.The only disturbance came when Greg’s phone went off.

“Ah, hell. Took ‘em long enough.” He muttered as he retrieved his phone and looked at it. “It’s Donovan.”

“You’d better take that.” Sherlock looked up, “She doesn’t call if it’s not important.”

“Hang on.” Greg frowned and swiped into the call. “Lestrade, Homicide. Oh, hey, Sal. What’s on?” There was a conversation had and he watched Greg’s expression and body language.

“I think we’ve got work.” John murmured, leaning against him from behind, “You good to walk away from this?”

“Yes, I can walk away from this for now.” He pushed aside the empty tray and double-checked his results. Good enough for now, he could come back another time and finish it. He had just finished putting everything away when Greg hung up with Donovan.

“Where are we going?”

“Somebody found a floater. Sorry, Molls.” Greg looked apologetic.

“Oh, don’t be sorry! I don’t mind.” Molly, bless her, just smiled, “It’s part of my job, anyway.”

“Most people I know wouldn’t be that happy about a dead body.”

“Well, I’m not most people you know, am I?” Molly folded her arms across her chest, her expression sly. Sherlock chuckled.

“Nope. Thank Christ! Thanks, Molls, I’ll send the vic your way once I’ve let these two have a look at things.” Greg thumbed at John and Sherlock, who just shared a look. During the drive from Saint Bart’s to the scene in Chelsea, Greg filled them in on the case. It was a very interesting one, and Sherlock was looking forward to a bit of excitement.

“Do we know how long the body was in the water?”

“Nope. We were kind of hoping you could tell us.”

“Happy to.” Sherlock smiled and looked at John, who wore a familiar expression. “Think you might be able to make something of it, Watson?”

“Absolutely! Let’s see what we’ve got left to work with, shall we?” John smirked and Sherlock stifled a chuckle. Oh, Irene Adler was a lucky woman. She knew it, too. Sherlock knew that part of his problem was jealousy, was a juvenile “what about me?” mentality. He kept thinking “It should be me.”, but that wasn’t fair to any of them and really, he didn’t _want_ that with John. What they’d had, and _still_ had, was more than he ever thought he wanted or deserved. John had found someone to take care of him and make him happy when Sherlock wasn’t there anymore, but he had still welcomed Sherlock back into his life with open arms when he finally returned.

When they got to Cadogan Pier, he turned his attention to the case and did what he could to make sure the case was solved in a timely manner. He was nice to everyone else, though he was still a bit mean to Anderson. Donovan let them through the tape-line with a smile for John.

“John.”

“Sally.”

“Hello, Sherlock.” She looked at Sherlock next, “Think you can solve this one?”

“Of course I can!” He just raised an eyebrow.

“After you, boys.” Greg got them focused and as soon as Sherlock saw the body, he knew this would be a _very_ interesting case.

“Oh, Molly’s going to have fun with this one, isn’t she?” He murmured.

“You get to have fun first, Sherl.” John was next to him, “What do you see?”

“Give me three minutes.”

“Start...now.” A soft beep told him John had started a timer on his watch, and he started a timer in his head as he began to examine the body and the surround. The rate of decomp was remarkably advanced, and identifying a singular cause of death was difficult. There was evidence of trauma both pre- and post-mortem, but if there was one thing he was certain of, the victim had been dead for quite some time before being discovered in the Thames.

“Got anything for us, Sherlock?” Greg asked when the three minutes was up.

“Well, there isn’t much to go on, but the victim is male, either Caucasian or light-skinned African descent. Decomp makes it very difficult to tell. I couldn’t say how old he was, but he was deceased before he was dumped in the river.”

“How long?”

“Quite a while. I would look through missing persons reports going back several months. We may need dental records or DNA to identify him.” He tugged off the gloves he’d worn, “And there won’t be any residual evidence, it’s long gone.”

“Oh, _great_. Well, do you have any idea how he died?”

“More than one cause of death. He was stabbed, there’s evidence consistent with blunt-force trauma, and he may have been shot.”

“Molly’s gonna have her hands full with this one.” Greg sighed and ruffled his hair, “Thanks, Sherlock.”

“Don’t thank me. I know I missed something important.”

“Well, considering the state of our victim, I won’t hold you responsible. And don’t hold yourself responsible, either.” Greg gave him a look. “Can I convince you two to give your statements now?”

“Sure. I don’t see why not.” John shrugged.

“And we might be able to make more of a dent on that stack of files on your desk for you, if you’d like us to.”

“Don’t mind if you do.” Greg’s smile widened.

They stayed on-scene for a while, filling out their reports in Greg’s car. Sherlock had a habit of writing his reports while sitting on the bonnet of Greg’s car, this allowed him to keep an eye on the scene and process things a bit. John usually sat in the passenger’s seat with his feet propped on the dash. He thought back on his conversation with Molly and knew he would have to say something soon. After finishing his reports, he gave them to Greg and settled against the frame of the car.

Handing things over to Donovan and making sure everything that needed to be happening was delegated to the right people, Greg took them back to Headquarters and they put a dent in the stacks of paperwork crowding his desk. John stayed an hour before returning to Clifton Hill. Sherlock and Greg walked him out and Sherlock hailed a taxi for him.

“Let me know when you get home, John?”

“Always do.” John smiled and gave him a hug. “Call if you need anything, alright?”

“Of course. I know where to find you.” Sherlock held the door for him and watched until the taxi was out of sight. Going back inside with Greg, Sherlock focused on case-work for a while. It was nice to focus on solving cases, working alongside Greg while he did his work. It was comfortable and familiar. 

 

It was quite late when they returned to Baker Street, they were careful not to make too much noise and disturb Mrs Hudson. Locking the door as a precaution, Sherlock headed upstairs to 221B and found Greg making himself at home on the couch. A fire was going in the hearth, Mrs Hudson had been up while they were gone. A soft scratch at the door was Sadie, who must have been let out of 221A to come upstairs. Sherlock smiled and gave her some fussing as he closed and secure the door of 221B.

“Tea, Greg?” He headed into the kitchen, knowing Sadie would follow him.

“Ta.” Greg sounded tired. Sherlock just shook his head. Sadie wandered over to Greg when he whistled. He leaned against the worktop as the kettle boiled, rubbing the scuffed, mottled surface with his fingertips.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” He looked up a bit. “Yes, Greg?”

“You okay?” He couldn’t see his boyfriend, but that was probably for the best. He sighed.

“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said yes, would you?”

“Mm. Didn’t think so. Not stupid, y’know? I’ve known you for nine years, Sherlock. I know when something’s bothering you.”

“I think you might be one of the few people I can’t lie to.”

“Who else?”

“Mycroft, of course. John. And I can’t seem to lie to Irene or Molly, either.”

“Hmm. So, what’s bothering you, then? You’ve been like this for a while now.”

“It’s silly.” He took the kettle off as it whistled and fixed up tea.

“I’d love to know who treated you so bad you have to say that kind of thing.” Greg sounded annoyed, but not with Sherlock.

“I’m sorry, Greg.” Pouring water into two cups with a teabag apiece, he let it steep and looked at his hands.

“Sherlock, whatever it is, it’s not silly. It’s important to _you_ , isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, I suppose.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’m...jealous. Of John.” There, that was out. “I wanted...I wanted it to be _me_ , Greg. Not Irene Adler. Me.”

“That sounds like jealousy. That’s alright, you’re allowed to be jealous.”

“But I shouldn’t be.”

“Sherlock?”

“What?”

“You are allowed to be jealous.”

“But it’s not fair to John.”

“What else is this?”

“I don’t...like being alone.” He took the tea out once it was ready, not missing that his hands shook a little. “It never bothered me before, but now, I don’t...I can’t be by myself.”

“Well, that makes sense. Security in numbers and all that.” Greg looked up as he set down one cup on the coffee table.

“It’s...it’s not just that, though. I don’t want to be alone anymore, I don’t like the idea of facing a future by myself.”

“It’s not just John and Irene, is it?”

“No. I saw...did you know Mycroft had proposed to Molly?”

“He did?”

“A rather gorgeous ring, actually. Proposed on Valentine’s Day, very cliché of him.”

“Wow. Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen your brother as happy as he’s been since he started dating Molly? Took me a couple months to figure out what was going on.”

“And when you found out John was dating Irene Adler?”

“ _That_ didn’t take quite as long, actually.” Greg smirked. “That woman’s downright scary when she wants to be.”

“What happened?”

“Well, the first time I knew they had anything to do with each other was the day after he got out of jail.”

“When you got the “Danger Night” text from him at Saint Bart’s?”

“Yeah. Jesus, that was a bad day.” Greg’s expression soured, “He swore up and down he wasn’t going to jump, but just...just _seeing_ him standing up there like that was awful. I thought I’d have a heart attack.”

“Irene must have come to get him.”

“Oh, did she ever. I kind of expected John to just kneel right there, beg forgiveness. I wanted to and I hadn’t even done anything!” Greg shook his head, “About a month or two later I learned that he’d moved into her place and they were low-key dating.”

“I’m glad you were here for John, he never had very many reliable friends.” Which was such a shame, John was a wonderful person and people would just take advantage of him. Of course, his retribution when he realized he had been wronged was often entertaining to observe.

“I was kind of worried about him, y’know? When I heard he’d started dating Irene Adler? But it was obvious she was taking care of him, giving him what he needed from her.”

“I was there the night he proposed to her, did you know that?”

“Oh my god, Sherlock.”

“I’d been home for several months by that time, maintaining a low profile.”

“I’ll say you did! Of course, you always were master of disguises, I can’t begin to imagine how many times you and I must have crossed paths before I showed up at Baker Street that once.” Greg shook his head, bemused. “Oh, Sherlock.”

“I revealed myself the next week, he...took it surprisingly well. I expected far more violence out of him than he expressed.”

“Did he know?”

“Suspected.” Sherlock took a sip of tea, glancing at the Evidence Wall that was plastered with wedding-prep. “I think I decided to take planning the wedding upon myself because I’m afraid of losing John.”

“Which is kind of bollocks, you see more of him than I do. And I _live_ here, for God’s sake!”

“I know. He and Irene have been...very good about making room for me. Not just in their relationship but...everywhere else. If he’s not here, John’s texting or calling at all hours, checking in on me, making sure I’m alright.” It was very sweet to know that John was so concerned about him. “I think he knows this isn’t...”

“He knows you’re hiding something.”

“Did you know, I was at MI-6 the other day and I ran into Bond? He took one look at me, turned me around, and marched me right back out the door.”

“I didn’t know that! What happened?”

“He took me back to his, locked every door in the place, sat me down and said I had two choices. I could talk about whatever this was willingly, or he’d make me.”

“Please tell me you didn’t make it hard on him?” Greg made a face, “Even I’m not desperate enough to try lying to a licensed government agent who could kill me in my sleep and make it look like a complete accident!”

“No, I talked. Vesper was there, too.”

“You must have talked, I get the feeling you weren’t leaving that house otherwise.”

“I did. And he actually told me the same thing Molly did earlier.”

“Oh?”

“He told me...he told me to talk. To you.” Sherlock set the cup down and folded his hands, avoiding eye-contact. “He said that if he’d noticed, then it was a sure thing you had noticed.”

“It’s been a month, Sherlock.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so...so sorry.”

“What’s on your mind, Sunshine?” Greg had moved from the couch and dropped to his knees before the chair, his hand rested on Sherlock’s. “Talk to me.”

“Greg, I need to...ask you something.”

“Okay?”

“It’s...well, not quite silly, but it’s...” It wasn’t so much that he wanted to ask Greg to _marry_ him, he just wanted to ask him to _stay_. He wanted to ask Greg to come with him to the wedding, to be there for him while he watched his best friend give himself away to a woman who truly did deserve him. Sherlock just had to get the nerve up and _ask_. Just. Ask.

“Sherlock, I have a question for you, too, but you go first. Just get it out.”

“Right. Um.” He sniffled, wondering what sort of question Greg wanted to ask him. “Well, er. You...you know that I’m John’s best man, and...”

“Yeah, I know. If you need help writing that speech, I’ll give you a hand.”

“Okay. That...actually, that’s kind of what I wanted to ask.” He took a deep breath and looked at the man kneeling between his legs. When had he moved to make room for Greg like that? Just instinct, he suspected.

“Gregory Lestrade, will you please be my date to John Watson’s wedding? As my boyfriend, I think it’s only right that you come.”

“No.” There was no heat or harshness in the single utterance, but it still brought Sherlock’s poor heart to a painful halt.

“No?” It was a bare whisper. He could hardly breathe, his chest hurt. Was this a panic attack? It felt like one.

“Let me explain.” Brown eyes studied him. Sherlock just nodded, numb.

“I don’t want to be your boyfriend, Sherlock. That’s...not enough.” Greg took his hands, and Sherlock studied the differences to distract himself from whatever Greg was about to say that would leave him devastated.

“Then what do you want?” _Please don’t say you want to leave me. Please don’t._

“I would love to go with you to John’s wedding, but I’m not going to show up there as Sherlock Holmes’ Boyfriend if I do.” Greg’s smile was unexpected. It was soft, and nervous, and sincere. That’s when Sherlock noticed the box. Where had that come from? He hadn’t noticed it before.

“What is that?” He had to ask, it was something else to think about.

“It’s something for you.” Greg shuffled closer. “I think I know what’s been bothering you lately, and this might help clear a few things up.”

“What...what are you...?” He trailed off as Greg cracked the box open. “Oh.”

“Sherlock, I said no because when we go to John’s wedding, it won’t be as boyfriends. I want more from you than that, and I think you want more from me. You just don’t know how to ask.”

“Oh my god.” He breathed out softly. “Oh, Greg.”

“So, Sherlock Holmes, will you please marry me?” The ring was simple and understated, the band made of a sturdy, lightweight metal with an unusual engraving. It was a series of curved lines, on closer study it looked an awful lot like...

“Fingerprints?”

“Mhm. _My_ fingerprint, actually, left ring finger.”

“That’s...very clever.” He smiled. It was disgustingly sentimental and so very clever. Quite original, too.

“So, what is your answer, Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes. Yes, absolutely.”  He didn’t even bother to reconsider, there was no other answer he could _give_ to a question like that! Greg took his left hand and carefully fit the ring.

“No more sadness, Sherlock.”

“No more sadness.” He simply repeated what Greg was saying. Not boyfriends anymore. Engaged now. Betrothed. Affianced. Getting married.

“Come down here, you silly man.” Greg pulled him off the chair, but the change of position put Sherlock off-balance. He overcorrected, which ended up with him grabbing Greg out of instinct, and they ended up on the floor together. A startled, undignified yelp escaped Sherlock, Greg cursed in Gaelic, and the coffee table skidded a few inches to the side as they bumped into it. Then, to top it all off, Sadie inserted herself into the equation.

“Sadie, no!” Sherlock shoved her out of the way as she wedged herself between them. Right then, they heard Mrs Hudson shouting at them as the bell rang.

“Boys! If you’re breaking my furniture or yourselves, I’ll have words for you!”

“We didn’t even have that much momentum!” Sherlock groaned.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock.” Greg laughed, “What was that!”

“That was your fault is what!” He shoved to his feet and headed for the door. “The bell would be dinner. I’m starving.”

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson yelled as the bell sounded again.

“Coming, Mrs Hudson!” He headed downstairs after grabbing his wallet. Mrs Hudson met him at the foot of the stairs.

“What was that all about?” His landlady just folded her arms and followed him to the door.

“So sorry about the commotion, Mrs H. Nothing’s been damaged or broken.”

“Hm.” She clearly didn’t believe him.

Sherlock just gave her an endearing smile as he opened the door to the delivery driver.

“Here you go, Mr Holmes!” The young Burmese woman held out two bags, slightly damp from the rain that had started falling while Sherlock and Greg had been at The Met.

“Thank you, Thanda.” He took the bags and handed over the stack of bills. “Keep the change for yourself.”

“Oh, thank you so much, Mr Holmes!”

“I haven’t seen you in a few weeks, where have you been?” Not that he had been ordering from the Indian restaurant she worked for as a driver very often. But she was a regular enough that he noticed when she wasn’t on deliveries.

“Oh! Well, um...” She blushed a bit. “I’ve been at school, sir.”

“What are you going for?”

“Medical school, sir.”

“Oh! Good for you, Thanda!” Sherlock smiled. “Where are you taking classes?”

“Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, sir.”

“I know several people there. How are your classes going?”

“It’s...hard, sir. I want to pay for myself, but...”

“Can’t your parents help?”

“They think I should get married and have a family, not have a career like medicine.”

“But aren’t you dating someone?” He thought he remembered her telling him about a boyfriend the last time he’d seen her.

“Oh, yes. My girlfriend is a huge fan of your blog, and Doctor Watson’s!”

“Girlfriend?” Oh, that was news to him!

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, Thanda, I’m so proud of you!” Sherlock set the bags down and pulled her into a hug, “Good for you! I hope you’re happy with this girl?”

“Yes, very happy. But my parents...they weren’t...”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. No, Thanda, I’m not going to judge you for dating another woman.” Sherlock looked at the ring Greg had given him just a moment ago. “I _can’t_ judge you.”

“Sherlock, what is...oh.” There was Greg, coming to find out what was taking so long. “Thanda! Hi, sweetie!”

“Hello, Inspector.” Thanda tried to smile for Greg. “I’m sorry your food’s gotten cold. You were my last run of the night.”

“That’s what microwaves are for, my dear. How are you, Thanda? You haven’t been around much.” Greg gave Thanda a hug and picked up the bags.

“She’s been attending classes at Saint Bart’s, Greg. Medical school for this one.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic! Hang on, I’ll be right back!”

“Oh. Okay.” Thanda looked a little confused. “Where is he going?”

“No idea.” Sherlock looked up at the sky and then at Thanda, “You said we were your last delivery of the night.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go turn in your cash-box and clock out, but then come back here.”

“Oh. Why, Mr Holmes?”

“Just trust me. Come back in fifteen minutes. I’ll leave the front door unlocked for you.”

“Okay.” Thanda looked so confused, but Sherlock had an idea.

“And bring your school-bag when you come back. I know you came straight to your shift out of classes.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr Holmes.” Thanda smiled and returned to her bike. He watched until she was out of sight, weaving in and out of traffic carefully, and went inside. Going upstairs, he found Greg in the sitting-room with a beer.

“You’re a good person, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Thanda Haymar is a good person, and she needs a safe place to go tonight. She could stay with her girlfriend, but her girlfriend is out of town and her roommate is passively homophobic.”

“Why is...oh.” Greg frowned, “Oh, no.”

“I suspect if we let her, she’ll tell us everything.”

“Boy, I hope so. But if anyone can get her to talk, it’ll be you.” Greg shook his head and took a sip of beer, passing the bottle over to Sherlock when he reached for it.

 

Thanda returned as promised fifteen minutes later, Sherlock let her into the flat. She promised she had locked the front door and secured her bike in the front hall out of the way of anyone coming or going. As there was usually enough food for three people, Sherlock had made up a plate for Thanda so she could eat something. They ate at the table together, keeping conversation engaging and neutral.

After a brief wash-up, Sherlock sent Thanda to the sitting-room and told her to make herself at home. She spread out on the work-table, careful not to disturb what was there already, and set to work on whatever homework she had from her classes. As Sherlock had suspected she would, Thanda told them everything. It was as heartbreaking as he’d thought it would be, and Sherlock spent most of the night after Thanda and Greg had gone to bed thinking of ways to help Thanda. He had his Happily Ever After to look forward to, it was time to pass it on and help someone else reach theirs.

* * *

* * *


	26. Rare Chemistry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More wedding planning and John's family comes calling on Baker Street. Things get...interesting. A bit violent, but no one important gets hurt.

* * *

* * *

As they closed in on detail after detail of the wedding, there was one that continued to elude them, and it proved a sore point of contention for Sherlock and John. They all agreed on one thing: No churches. That left plenty of venue options open to them, but none of them seemed right. Either location or staffing was cause for concern at nearly every one of them.

“The wedding’s in two _months_ , Sherlock!” John tossed aside another stack of pamphlets in frustration, “What am I going to do?”

“Besides panic?”

“Shut up, you.” He shook his head and paced the Baker Street sitting room.

“Have a courthouse wedding, if you’re that fussed about it.”

“No! Not helping!” John glared at his best friend. “Why is this the one thing we’re getting hung up on? Everything else is fine!”

“Was that a rhetorical question?” Sherlock just raised an eyebrow, barely moving from the couch where he had settled down in his usual pose.

“Yes it was and so help me if you try to be a smart arse.” He huffed. He made it to the window and stopped to look out for a moment. He saw a cab pull up but thought nothing of it. Turning on his heel, he set off across the sitting room towards the kitchen. 

“You know, you’re going to owe Mrs Hudson a new rug soon if you don’t stop that.”

“Yes, I know. Stop talking, it’s annoying.” All he got for that was a chuckle.

“Boys!” Mrs Hudson called from the bottom of the stairs.

“No, Mrs Hudson!” They yelled back in tandem. Too late, she was knocking on the door in no time.

“Not a case this time, lads. Someone to see you, John?”

“What?” That got his attention and he ground a halt, spinning on his heel as she held the door for their caller. “For _me_?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Oh.” He traded a look with Sherlock. But as soon as he saw their caller, he stiffened.

“What are _you_ doing here?” He nearly spat the words.

“Well, that’s nice of you!” The woman standing at their door scoffed, “Nice to see you, too, John!”

“John?” Sherlock was on his feet in a hurry, having sensed the tension. The dogs had sensed it too, and both Bréagha and Sadie came to investigate.

“Mrs Hudson, would you mind taking the dogs for a bit?”

“Of course, dear! Everything alright?”

“No.” He didn’t look away from their caller once and it wasn’t until the door had closed behind Mrs Hudson and the dogs that he realized he had clenched his teeth and had one hand in a fist.

“John, what’s going on?” Sherlock was behind him now, one hand on his shoulder, “Do I need to call Greg?”

“You know what? Yes. Do that, please.” He squared his shoulders. “Unless _you_ have a good reason for being in this house?” This was to the dishevelled woman standing in their sitting room.

“Y’know, Johnny boy, I thought you lived in a nicer place than _this_ dump!”

“I’m here because we have a case on right now,” John said stiffly. Sherlock took his hand as he tapped out a text to Greg, squeezed gently. It helped ground him a bit, he needed that.

“Harry, what the fuck are you doing here? Because you picked one _hell_ of a time to show up!”

“Heard you thought you were getting married or some rubbish.”

“I _am_ getting married if that’s any business of yours. You have absolutely _no_ say in my private life, Harry.” He glared at his sister. “You gave up all rights to that when you drank yourself into a stupor and beat the sense out of your wife. Six months in rehab and a year in prison for assault.” John still remembered pulling his sister away from Clara before she beat the other woman into a coma, visiting Clara in the hospital and helping her file for separation. The papers for divorce had been finalized and filed three months before he’d met Sherlock in 2010, but he still kept in touch with Clara.

“It’s your fault she left me! Completely your fault! If you hadn’t … ”

“Hadn’t what? Intervened before you actually _killed_ her?” John folded his arms across his chest, “I don’t regret anything I did for Clara, and you will never, _ever_ hold me responsible for the consequences of your own fucking actions. I lived most of my life afraid of you, afraid of Dad. Then I got out with the Army.”

“Yeh. Ran like a coward is what you did!” Harry sneered.

“That’s enough!” Sherlock’s voice sounded unusually _loud_ , even though he hadn’t raised it much above a conversational volume. He stepped up to John’s side and then past him a bit, providing a block between Harry and John. He looked her over and his eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Oh, _you_ must be Harry Watson.”

“Yeah? And who the fuck are _you_?” Harry spat. John couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“Harry Watson, meet Sherlock Holmes. Believe me, you know exactly who he is.”

“Ooh! Oh ho! Oh, that’s too fucking good!” Harry’s eyes lit up. “John, does your fiancée know you’re cheating on her with your junkie boyfriend?!”

“It’s not cheating, it’s an open relationship, she is just as invested as I am. And he’s been clean and sober a lot longer than _you_ have.” He glared at his sister, just daring her to come at him. Harry was definitely compromised, she usually got violent when she’d been drinking and it was far worse if she was suffering an episode of withdrawal as well.

Because he handled violent suspects rather more often than not, John had no problem taking down his sister when she did finally snap and lunge at him. Because of the work he did with The Met, he kept handcuffs on him at all times and was quick to use them on Harry.

“Sherlock!” He shouted towards the bedroom. “Get a gag!” His sister bucked under him, but he had no problem resettling his weight and pinning her. Sherlock appeared in no time with a few things in hand. Another set of cuffs, should they need them, and an open-mouth gag from the toy-box under his bed. It didn’t take long to shackle Harry’s feet, especially when she thought it might be a good idea to kick at John. But he was expecting that and pinned her legs.

“Let me go!”

“Stop struggling!” He snarled, “In case you forgot, dear sister, I make a living putting people in handcuffs!” Once they had her feet secured, Sherlock handed over the gag.

“What is that for? Get off of me!”

“This is so you don’t try to _bite_ us, Ms Watson,” Sherlock said to Harry as they gagged her. Once she was struggling but silent, John carefully resettled his weight.

“Well, _that_ was exciting.” He huffed.

“Shall we move her?”

“Mhm.” He got to his feet, “Just to the Client’s Chair for now.” They moved Harry to the chair set aside for clients and ensured she wouldn’t be going anywhere. Mrs Hudson came to see what all the commotion was about.

“What happened up here? Are you boys alright? I heard shouting.”

“It’s fine now, Mrs Hudson. We’ve called Greg, he’ll be here shortly.” Sherlock looked up from where he’d settled in his chair.

“Oh, dear.” Mrs Hudson looked at Harry, then at John. “Is she going to be alright?”

“No. She’s not. Between being drunk and, quite possibly, high, my sister became rather violent.”

“Oh, she’s your _sister_! Oh, dear, I’m so sorry!” Mrs Hudson looked upset by that, “I am so sorry, John!”

“It’s alright, Mrs Hudson, you didn’t know.” John just smiled tightly at Mrs Hudson, “It’s not the first time I’ve been attacked by my sister, it won’t be the last.” The bell sounded, distracting Mrs Hudson. Harry made some noise and struggled a bit, but didn’t get very far.

“That’s not Greg, is it?” Sherlock looked over his shoulder. John wandered to the window.

“He has a key, why would he … oh.” He saw the person standing at their door and frowned. “Oh no.”

“What is it, John?”

“Oh, you _have_ to be kidding me.” He sighed and turned around. “Stay here, will you? Be right back.”

“What is it?”

“Take a look.” He grabbed his coat and headed downstairs. Opening the door, he stepped out and closed it behind him, cutting off the rant with one raised hand.

“Don’t. Just don’t. I’ve been attacked already.”

“Why won’t you let me into the house?”

“Because I just put my own fucking sister in handcuffs after she came at me.” He zipped up his coat, “What are you doing here?”

“I was hoping I could get here before … well … before whatever happened upstairs happened.”

“Mum, what are you _doing_ here?”

“I told Harry to give you something, before realizing that was a bad idea.”

“Give me what, exactly?” He sighed, feeling the start of a headache. His sister was bad enough, but his mother suddenly showing up was _not_ what he needed right now.

“Do you remember the house Nana and Granda had?”

“The Stanley house? Otterstone Lodge?” He remembered, alright, fond memories in fact. His maternal grandparents had a house in Stanley, Scotland. John had always loved the house and had wanted it for ages. He had always said that if there was one thing he wanted after his grandparents passed, it was Otterstone Lodge. He didn’t want money or material things, he wanted that house.

“Well, they’ve decided to downsize to something a bit more manageable and move out of Otterstone Lodge.” His mother, who hadn’t really changed _that_ much in the years since he’d gone away to school and the Army after that, looked ... sad almost. John sighed and put his hands in his pockets, looking over his shoulder at the windows of 221B.

“Why are you telling me this, Mum? Why now?”

“Because ... well, they wanted to keep it in the family and I’m not interested in the place at all and we all know if Harry got her hands on it, it’d be ... ”

“She’d burn it down, knowing her.” John shook his head. “What about it?”

“Well, I assume Granda forgot that you haven’t had anything to _do_ with Harry in ages and they sent her some mail for you. She didn’t open it, of course, but she did call me to ask what she should do with it.”

“I’m shocked she didn’t open it, it’s just the sort of mean, spiteful thing she’d do.” He rifled in his pockets for a cigarette, knowing he had a few. God, he needed one right now. He found the pack and extracted it.

“Ah, there you are. Oh, goodie, Sherlock didn’t take all of them.”

“What is ... oh, _John_! You smoke?”

“So do you, so what about it?” He just gave her a level look. “You knew about this when I was eighteen, don’t look so shocked.”

“I thought you’d quit!”

“The wedding is killing us, I just about snapped Sherlock’s head off his shoulders a minute ago.” He found his lighter and offered them to his mother. She sheepishly accepted both.

“What was it this time, then?” His mother followed their blogs, so she was familiar with their little spats.

“Venues, actually. Of all things we _don’t_ have squared, that’s a big problem.” He took a draw and held it for a bit.

“Oh? I think I have a solution.” His mother smiled sly-like and gave back the pack and lighter. “Well, Nana and Granda do, at any rate. You know how I said they want to keep the house in the family?”

“Yeah?” He leaned his head back and blew a stream of smoke at the overcast sky. “What about it?”

“The piece of mail your sister got in your name is rather valuable, I’d hate to think anything happened to it.”

“Hmm. Hang on a mo.” He fished his phone out of his pocket and tapped out a text to Sherlock. As he’d expected, his phone rang with a call, which he promptly answered.

_“What is it, John?”_

“My sister brought a bag with her. Look through it for me, there should be an envelope inside addressed to me in her care.” He looked up at the house. He heard rustling and muttering.

_“Are you smoking again, John?”_

“Oh, shut up. I don’t do it in the house, y’know? And it’s not like _you’re_ any saint, is it?” He rolled his eyes, “Besides, you owe me half a pack, you’ve gone through most of the one I found in my coat.”

_“Can you blame me?”_

“Did I say I blamed you?” He shook his head. “Did you find the envelope?”

_“Yes, I did. What is it, if I may ask?”_

“Why don’t you come downstairs and I’ll show you?” He looked over at his mother, who wasn’t doing a very good job of looking uninterested, “Oh, and I’ll introduce you to our second guest.”

_“Okay?”_

“It’s perfectly safe to leave Harry alone for a few minutes.” He saw a flash of silver in his peripheral and grinned. “And Greg’s here, so you might as well come down and say hi to your fiancé.”

_“Oh, that was fast.”_

“I have no idea what you said, but you know he’ll come if it’s important. And you, sir, are quite important.” He hung up with Sherlock and pocketed his phone as the silver Mercedes slid to a halt in front of the house.

“Who’s that, then?” Marian Watson eyed the car suspiciously.

“Good friend of mine. That’s Greg Lestrade.”

“Oh! Oh, your DI friend! The handsome one!”

“ _Very_ handsome, and quite off the market, I’m afraid.” He chuckled and flicked a bit of ash from the cigarette. “Heya, Greg.”

“John, what’d you do this time?”

“Not me, actually. If you can hang around, we need you to do a transport for us.”

“Oh, great.” Greg’s expression said so much. “Now what?”

“You never met my sister, did you?”

“Once, I think? Harry, right? Looks like your female clone?”

“Yeah, that’s a word for her.” He looked at his mother, who just raised an eyebrow. “Guess who showed up stinking drunk and high on God knows what?”

“Oh, shit, are you serious?”

“About ... fifteen minutes ago?” He looked at his watch, “When did Sherlock text you?”

“About fifteen minutes ago, twenty maybe.” Greg ran one hand through his hair, “She’s breathing, yeah?”

“Yes, she’s breathing. She can’t do much damage right now, she’s a little tied up.”

“What happened?”

“Harriet Watson experienced an episode fuelled by alcohol withdrawal and what appears to be a brutal heroin crash.” And there was Sherlock. “As a result, she physically and verbally assaulted both John and myself. We, of course, were uninjured.”

“John Watson, you lucky son of a bitch.” His mother muttered, looking between Greg and Sherlock, “I’ve never been so happy you were bisexual.”

“Mum!” He coughed, “Jesus Christ!”

“Well, you seem to have an eye for handsome partners, what can I say?” His mother gave him a rather mean smile, “Why don’t you introduce us, then?”

“Oh, for the love of Christ.” He rubbed his forehead. “Sherlock, did you find the envelope?”

“Yes, I did.” Sherlock handed him the envelope in question and he tore it open carefully. “What is it?”

“It’s a deed.” He would read it all more thoroughly later, “My grandparents have left me the family home in Perth, apparently.”

“I wasn’t aware your grandparents had died?” Or that they were living, either.

“Oh, god, no! They’re still alive, just ... downsizing.” He folded the papers and put everything in his pocket, “It was always the one thing I wanted of them, was that house, and they’re giving it to me now since they can’t stay in it anymore.”

“That’s very generous of them.” Sherlock tilted his head, “But I don’t understand how this solves our problem.”

“I’ll show you the house and you’ll understand. But I should make a few introductions first.” John smiled and looked at his mother, “Sherlock, Greg, this is my mother, Marian Watson. Mum, Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade.”

“Oh, it’s nice to meet you both! My son always did have an eye for the handsome ones, even when he was sixteen.”

“Mum, do you _mind_!” John wondered if the ground would open up and swallow him before he died of mortification.

“What? Am I _wrong_?”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Watson.” Sherlock offered Marian one hand, “I can’t say John has spoken very often of you.”

“Or very well, either. No fault of his, though. He’s a good man.” Marian smiled, “It’s a true pleasure to finally meet you, Sherlock. John may not speak well or often of his family, and who could blame him, but he’s spoken both of you.” Sherlock blushed a bit and held out one hand to John, who handed over the cigarette, knowing _that’s_ what Sherlock was asking for. It was quiet between them as they took advantage of a few minutes granted by a cigarette. Sherlock must have left Mrs Hudson to guard Harry.

“Would you like to come inside, Mrs Watson?” Sherlock asked after a while.

“Oh, I can’t impose.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Please.” Sherlock gave John a look, he just shrugged, and held the door. Putting out the dog-end of his cigarette, he collected the stub, taking his mother’s as well. They all went inside and upstairs. Disposing of the spent ends, John ducked into the bathroom to wash his hands and brushed his teeth, a habit he’d assumed a long time ago. Sherlock had moved Harry to the back bedroom, which was rather nice of him, and John didn’t think Greg would mind taking Harry for them. He heard a commotion in the back bedroom and sighed.

“Come on, John.” Greg came into the kitchen, pocketing his phone. “Sally’s on her way, she’ll be here in a minute.”

“Ta, Greg.” John shook his head and headed for the back bedroom with Greg in tow. Getting into the bedroom, they found Harry sitting up on the bed, her feet on the floor. Hearing them come in, she raised her head and looked at them. Her eyes were glazed over and John knew without asking that she didn’t recognize him.

“Where am I?”

“You’re in 221B Baker Street, in London. Do you remember _anything_?”

“No? What am I doing here?”

“Your mother sent you here to deliver a piece of mail that came to you for your brother, from your grandparents. Do you remember that?”

“Is ... is Mum _here_?”

“Out in the sitting room.”

“What is _she_ doing here?”

“She came to put things straight.” John took one step towards his sister, “We’re going to take you somewhere safe, Harriet. You’ll be taken care of, you’ll be safe.”

“Wh-what? Where?”

“Castle Craig Hospital in Scotland.”

“Are you _cops_?”

“I’m not, but he is.” John stopped just out of reach. “We need to get you up on your feet, Harriet. Don’t fight us.”

“How could I possibly fight you? I’m in fucking _handcuffs_.”

“You attacked your brother and his partner,” Greg said sternly as they got Harry to her feet.

“Can I ... can I go to the loo?”

“Yes.” They took her into the en-suite and John stood guard.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I’m here to make sure you don’t try any funny business.” He kept his back to his sister. When she was done, he took her out to the sitting room, where he wasn’t surprised to find Sally Donovan and Stella Hopkins chatting with Sherlock and Mrs Hudson, and John’s mother. Seeing their mother, Harry broke down in hysterics and begged them not to take her away, not to take her to Scotland Yard. Or to Scotland, for that matter, which is precisely where she was going as soon as The Met was done with her.

“It’s for your own good, Harry. You’re lucky you didn’t seriously injure anyone.” Marian pulled away from her daughter, “I’ll come and visit you, but I will not enable you anymore.”

“You don’t care about me! You just want to put me away and forget about me! You’re not the woman who raised me!” She tried to lash out, but they were holding her down. “I hate you! I hate you all!”

“Ma’am, please don’t struggle.” Sally came up alongside John, reaching for Harry. “You’ll be charged with resisting arrest.” They ended up taking Harry to the ground when she tried to kick Greg. They put a mesh hood over Harry’s head to keep her from getting her teeth on them or spitting on them. It took four of them to drag her out of the house, kicking and screaming and trying to bite them. John slammed the door of the car shut and stepped back as Harry kicked the window. It was ballistics glass and wouldn’t shatter under that kind of impact.

“What the hell is wrong with your sister?” Sally shook her head as they stood clear of the car.

“She’s suffering withdrawal.” John shook his head, “She gets very violent when she gets like this.”

“Clearly.” Sally took his hand. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. I’m fine, Sal.”

“When Greg said you’d been assaulted, I thought it was a client or suspect gone off the rails. I didn’t think it was your own family.”

“Harry’s never been quite right in the head.” He shrugged, “We usually cart her off to rehab when this happens.”

“Is that where she’ll be going next?”

“Yes. For quite a while, I imagine.”

“Well, I guess I’d better get her to booking and let someone else deal with her for a while.” Sally gave him a hug. “You take care of yourself, John. I’ll see you later?”

“Absolutely.” John smiled and leaned in to kiss Sally on the cheek. “Good luck, and safe driving.”

“This is part of my job, John, not the very glamorous part of it.”

“You’re a good friend, Sally. See you later.” He held the driver’s side door for Sally and stood on the kerb until the car was out of sight. Going upstairs once he had closed the door, John decided he could at least be civil with his mother for a while. He fixed four cups of tea and carried the tray out when it was ready.

“Granda’s letter can’t possibly be the only reason you staked out Baker Street today, Mum, what else brought you here?” He asked once they were all situated.

“Oh.” His mother set down her cup and made a face. “Well, I ... had something I wanted to share with you, but I’m not certain if I should.”

“Share what news you have and we’ll make that decision of its good-ness or bad-ness ourselves.” Sherlock said calmly. John knew he was deducing and processing data as fast as he breathed, keeping it to himself until an opportunity presented itself to unload his knowledge.

“Very well.” Marian looked at her hands and then looked at John. “I wanted to tell you, I’ve remarried.”

“You have?”

“Yes. It’s only been a few months, but he’s ... quite wonderful.”

“That’s ... wow, Mum.” It wasn’t _bad_ news, but it was certainly unexpected. “Where did you meet him? How?”

“It was an accident, really.” He would be damned if she didn’t blush. “You know how I’ve been down in Clapham for a while?”

“Since 2007? Yes.”

“Well, one of my neighbours got a dog recently, he’s a rather dear thing.”

“Why does that matter?”

“I found him in my front garden one day, he had apparently escaped his own yard.”

“When was _this_ , then?” John tilted his head, “It’s nearly May.”

“February? Around Valentine’s Day.”

“What did you do, then?”

“Got his tag, called the number listed, and talked to the man who answered.”

“I doubt that’s _all_ you did, Mrs Watson.” Sherlock had his fingers steepled, he was processing everything Marian was telling them and everything she kept to herself.

“No, no, I ... erm. I took Bandit home myself to properly introduce myself to his owner, we ... we weren’t quite the strangers I’d thought we were. I thought the name on Bandit’s tag looked familiar, but ... ”

“Wait, Mum.” John held up one hand, “What was the dog’s name?”

“Bandit. Gorgeous dog, not sure what breed he is, if one or several, but he’s a sweetheart.”

“Bandit?” John looked at Sherlock, who wasn’t doing quite a fair job of hiding his surprise. “I think I know a dog named Bandit. He was one of my rescues, one of Nowzad Dogs’ rescues.”

“I know. I recognized him from the website, it’s why I didn’t call animal control.” Marian fiddled with the rings on her left hand, they were quite new. “And when I took him home, I ... I recognized his owner.”

“You said it was a neighbour of yours?”

“Yes. Rather handsome gentleman, lives over in Bramfield Road. Veteran, actually.” Marian smiled, “You might know him, John. He was one of yours, said he remembered you.”

“One of your commanders, John?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

“There aren’t many of my former commanders I’m still in touch with. Sholto’s an exception.” John got up and paced a bit, “Who would have ... I mean, I try to keep track of who adopts the rescues from Afghanistan, I usually know the veterans by some channel or another.”

“Don’t _we_ keep records here at Baker Street, John?”

“Actually ... we do! Yes, we do!” John nodded, “Sherlock, we keep those down in C, don’t we?”

“Do you want me to find them?”

“Just the last few months’ worth. I don’t need anything before Christmas of last year, I don’t think.”

“I’ll be right back.” With that, Sherlock was on his feet and out the door.

“Where is _he_ going?” Marian watched him disappear down the stairs.

“Down to 221C, we turned it into a work-space for cases and such.”

“What’s all of this, then?” She waved at the cluttered Evidence Wall.

“That’s all wedding-planning.”

“My god.”

“It’s keeping us all busy, let me tell you.” John sighed, hoping he might be able to make something of Otterstone Lodge.

It wasn’t long before Sherlock came back upstairs.

“Found it! Had to do some searching, but we keep things rather well-organized!” He waved a file over his head. “Dog’s name is Bandit, came home in January?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Here, John.” Sherlock gave him the file in question, “Bandit was adopted last year and arrived home in mid-January. He was adopted by Kingsley Ferguson.”

“F-Ferguson?” It came out a whisper. John knew _exactly_ who that was, despite having next to nothing to do with him outside of rare encounters around Remembrance Day. “You ... um. Mum, did you ... marry Colonel Ferguson?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I can’t believe it. All these years, all of the _awful_ people you dated when I was in secondary, while I was in the Army.”

“Is that going to be a problem for you?” Marian looked at him carefully.

“I don’t ... um, I don’t think so. No, I shouldn’t think it will at all.” He shook his head quickly. “You ended up marrying Kingsley Ferguson. He saved my _life_ , Mum. He looked after me for years.”

He remembered Kingsley Ferguson from years and years ago, as much of a father-figure to John as James Sholto had been. Ferguson had been the one to keep him alive long enough to get him onto the chopper and on his way to Germany, then it had been up to Sam and Victoria MacGuinness to keep him alive. It was Ferguson who had been there with Sholto when John regained consciousness, explained everything, and told him just to stay still and do whatever they told him, he would be in good hands, his rough Scottish brogue soothing and leaving no room for misunderstanding. John had felt bad for losing touch with Ferguson after getting out of the Army, but he _had_ made it to Ferguson’s passing-out ceremony back in 2013, Irene had gone with him.

A touch on his hand got his attention and pulled him back to the present. He turned his head and looked at his mother, who just smiled at him.

“You know, he’s the one who told me you were home after you got shipped back from Afghanistan?” She squeezed his hand. “He came over and told me in person.”

“Oh, Mum. I am so sorry.” John covered his face. He was going to need some time with Irene after this for sure. “I can’t ... ”

“You came home, John, that’s all that matters to me. You came home alive, not in a box.” His mother took his hand, “That was when we started our friendship.”

“So all this time, you’ve been dating Kingsley Ferguson?”

“More or less.”

“Oh, god.”

“I wanted to tell you in person before you found out some other way.”

“Before Harry told me, you mean.” John sighed and looked at his mother, who really wasn’t _that_ bad, it was just some of the choices she had made and the way she had treated him for so long. “Was she going to, do you think? Today?”

“Absolutely. You know how she gets when she’s in one of her phases?”

“I don’t think there’s any hope for Harry, Mum. We’ve tried so hard for her and she just ... she throws it back in our faces and accuses us of interfering.”

“She’s been that way since puberty, love.” Marian touched the side of John’s face, “Don’t ever let her belittle you for anything you’ve done with your life.”

“Ferguson must have told you to start behaving yourself, _you_ used to belittle me. Regularly.”

“I know, and I am so, _so_ sorry, John. I was selfish and cruel when you needed me to listen.”

“Have you stopped drinking?”

“Yes. A glass of wine every now and then, not ... ” She hesitated.

“Not half the neighbourhood off-license?” John finished her sentence for her, knowing what she had trouble putting into words.

“No.” Alcoholism ran in the family, it wasn’t just Harry’s vice.

“But you haven’t given up smoking.” That was Sherlock. “You’ve had one cigarette while you’ve been here, but your fingers are twitching and you’re restless. You want another, but you’re not going to ask, you don’t like to seem ... needy.”

“He’s doing that trick, isn’t he?”

“He’s being _nice_ about it, which I can’t always say he is.” John looked at his business-partner and smiled.

“Well, I think I’ve taken enough of your time, boys.” Marian got up, John was right behind her.

“That’s alright, Mum. You, we don’t mind having.” John picked up the empty cups and stacked them on the tray. “You didn’t try to attack us.”

“I’m sorry about Harry, John. I shouldn’t ... I shouldn’t have sent her.” Marian followed him into the kitchen to help with the wash-up. “What can we do?”

“Send her to rehab. Send her to Scotland.” He turned and leaned against the work-top by the sink after setting the last of the cups aside on the drying board. “Castle Craig can handle her, and it seems to be the only centre in the UK that we’ve sent her to that made any difference.”

“I’ll make the arrangements, I don’t want her to think you had anything to do with it.”

“The only thing I had to do with it was getting her into police custody until someone from Castle Craig can come to London and collect her.” He looked out to the sitting-room where he could hear Greg and Sherlock talking in low voices. Sadie wandered in and put her nose against John’s hand. Sherlock must have retrieved the dogs from Mrs Hudson before coming upstairs. John smiled and ruffled Sadie’s ears.

“No worries, Sadie-girl, it’s alright now.” He reassured her. Sherlock whistled from the sitting-room and Sadie went to her master. John followed.

“Heading out, are you?” He noticed that Greg had his coat on and Sherlock was collecting his things.

“Well, I’ve got paperwork to file, so I’ll talk to you later.” Greg double-checked for keys, badge, and phone, “Take care of yourself, John?”

“Yeah, I’ll try. I think I’ll head up to Scotland for a bit.”

“What for?”

“Family property came to me, I’d like to go take a look at it.”

“Oh! Venue?”

“Possibly.” He followed Greg downstairs, leaving his mother with Sherlock and the dogs. “Do _you_ want to come?”

“Sure, if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all!” John didn’t mind having company when he travelled to visit his grandparents. “See about getting the weekend and we’ll make a bit of a holiday out of it.”

“Sounds great!”

“Thanks, Greg. I’m sorry about Harry.”

“Eh, she didn’t make contact. I’ve handled a lot worse.” Greg shrugged as they stood by his car. Sherlock came down a short time later with a few bags and Sadie on her lead.

“We both have, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.” He gave Greg a hug. “Be in touch, alright?”

“Always am. I know how to find you if I need you.” Greg ducked into his car and John waited until the Mercedes was out of sight to go back inside. Sherlock had gone back to Headquarters with Greg, taking Sadie with them. John wasn’t needed on Baker Street anymore, so he texted Kate and packed up his things.

“Come on, girl, we’re going home now.” He gave Bréagha a ruffle as he clipped the lead to her collar in the foyer once Kate arrived.

“You be safe, John, hear me?” Mrs Hudson let him out of the house.  

“I will be, Mrs Hudson. Thank you so much. I’m so sorry about the commotion.”

“I’m just glad you weren’t hurt, John!”

“Not the first time, not going to be the last. I’ll be back in a while, alright?”

“You’d better.” She gave him a tight hug and looked past him to Irene, who leaned against the waiting car. “You take good care of this boy, Irene!”

“I do my best, Mrs Hudson,” Irene promised. John was just grateful that Irene and Mrs Hudson got along as well as they did. As Bréagha hopped into the back of the car, John handed Kate his bags.

“Are you going to introduce me to your pretty friend, John?” His mother asked, “Is this her, then?”

“Yes, it is.” He took Irene’s hand. “Irene, this is my mother, Marian Watson. Mum, this is Irene Adler, my fiancée.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you properly, Mrs Watson.” Irene was friendly with his mother, “Will you come to the wedding?”

“I highly doubt my husband would let me get away with _not_ going!” Marian beamed and gave John a sly look, “He’s rather fond of my son.”

“Oh, you’ve ... remarried, then?”

“Just a few months ago. Very quiet-like.”

“Oh, that’s lovely!” Irene was surprised but not put off by the revelation. “We’ll look forward to having you, then! Both of you!”

“Absolutely! Date, time, and place are all we need!”

“We’ll get formal invitations out very soon,” John promised, knowing that would happen as soon as he’d made it up to Perth to look at Otterstone Lodge and take ownership.

“Good. Do be in touch, John? Don’t be a stranger?”

“I won’t, Mum.” He hugged his mother, “I promise I won’t be. My love to Kingsley?”

“Of course! He’ll be rather put out you can’t be bothered to call, of course.”

“I think he’ll forgive me, Mum.” John chuckled. “I expect some kind of contact will be forthcoming. At the very least to offer either condolences or congratulations.”

“Despite what your sister says or thinks, I am _so_ happy for you. We both are, John.” She kissed him on the cheek and let them go. As they pulled away from Baker Street, Irene looked at him.

“Who did your mother marry?”

“Kingsley Ferguson.”

“Colonel Ferguson? Your old commanding officer?”

“Yes. Apparently, they’ve been friends for quite some time and recently married.”

“And you’re ... okay with that?” Irene frowned.

“He was the closest thing I had to a father for so long. Him and Sholto.” John shrugged and took Irene’s hand in his, “I don’t mind that he’s married Mum, I’m actually ... glad. Especially knowing they were friends before they married.”

“That does help, doesn’t it?” Irene rubbed her thumb over his knuckles. “You need to unwind?”

“Yeah. I ... I really do. I don’t need pain, I just need to ... ”

“You need to refocus.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

“I’ll take care of you, Captain, just trust me.” She squeezed his hand and it was quiet for the duration of their commute.

 

Once home, he let himself into the house and went up to the bedroom. Irene followed and gave him orders.

“All clothes off, folded on the table, and kneel. If you need to take care of yourself, do so right now.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” He quickly and efficiently undressed and went to the en-suite. He made use of the facilities before going out again and kneeling by the chaise. Irene had the tray out, John made his selections and settled in to unwind and refocus. He trusted Irene to know what he needed and take care of him accordingly. She was rather good at that, wasn’t she? John was lucky to have Irene, luckier still to be able to say that she was all his. He shared her with her clients, and occasionally with Greg and Sherlock, but everything else was for him.

* * *

* * *

 


	27. Symbols of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding bells for John and Irene!

* * *

* * *

By the time the weekend was upon them, John was eager to leave London behind for a few days. Greg had managed to work it out so that he had from Friday to Monday to himself, he would return to work on Tuesday. That meant Sherlock and Greg would be joining John and Irene in Scotland, and that was just fine with him. He had called his grandparents and spoken to them about taking ownership of Otterstone Lodge, they told him to come right up, they had the title and keys for him. It turned out they were moving to London, of all places, to be closer to the family they had left. He was on very good terms with his grandparents and he wanted to introduce them to his friends, and _they_ wanted to meet Sherlock, so it worked out well for everyone.

 

So, at seven o’clock on Thursday evening, John met the other three on a bustling platform at King’s Cross Station. Boarding the train, they found their seats. Once they were on their way, John spent most of the four-hour and thirty-minute trip blogging. He slept for the last half of the trip and he was awake when they pulled into Edinburgh. It didn’t take long to collect their luggage and get underway. Mycroft hadn’t just taken care of transportation from London to Edinburgh by paying for their train-tickets, he had also taken care of transportation from Edinburgh to Stanley and had reserved two cars in their names. So, after collecting a pair of Land Rovers from an area hire, John took the lead and got them on the proper heading.

“You don’t drive very often, do you?” Irene asked as they hit the M90 and started the northerly portion of their drive.

“Just because I can, doesn’t mean I like to.” He checked his speed and then shoulder-checked to make sure Greg and Sherlock were still behind them. “Probably wouldn’t be a great idea for someone like me to be driving around and mistake a piece of rubbish for roadside IED.”

“But you love it. I know you do.” She smiled and reached over to touch the back of his hand. “So, why don’t you?”

“Don’t need to. I’ve got the Tube, taxis, and Kate back in London.” John shrugged. “Not to mention, where on earth would I park a car if I owned one? When would I drive one?”

“Point taken. But you still enjoy it, don’t you?”

“Used to drive lead every time we took a caravan. And of course I drove the ambulances.”

“Which explains why you can handle a Range Rover so well.”

“I’m qualified on six vehicles and two helicopters. Well, three, actually.”

“Six vehicles and three helicopters?”

“Mhm. Got my pilot’s license around the same time I took the All Arms Commando Course. Flew SAR and med-evac in Afghanistan.”

“Well, aren’t you just a renaissance man?” Irene chuckled and took his hand, resting her fingers over his to make contact but not insisting on anything more than that.

“Surgeon, physician, soldier, pilot, police informant, detective.”

“Husband.” She added softly, linking their fingers. “Soon.”

“Never thought I’d get there, actually.” John turned his head a bit. “Never thought I’d find someone like you who wanted to stay with me.”

“Not only did you find me, my dear, but good luck to you getting rid of me.” There was a hint of a challenge there. “If I haven’t left you by now, I won’t be interested in leaving you in the future.”

“Making you a better woman than anyone else I’ve ever known or dated.”

“If only because I’ve seen you at your absolute worst and stayed regardless.”

“Thank you for staying with me.” He wondered how differently things could have turned out of if he hadn’t answered that text message back in 2012. Would he have found Irene later? Would their paths have crossed at all, or would he have gone on his way in a miserable existence just living day-to-day and contemplating an end to it all more than once on the worst days?

“Out of your head, Captain. Right now.”

“You always know, don’t you?”

“You get this look in your eyes. It’s very subtle, not everyone would notice.” She squeezed his wrist and gave him a soft, understanding smile. John just smiled in return, and focused on getting them to Stanley. His grandparents would be long abed by the time they arrived, but the annexe was open to them for at least their first night’s stay in the house.

 

The car’s clock, and John’s watch and phone, read 1:30 am as they pulled up at Otterstone Lodge. There wasn’t much to see at night, but it was still a lovely house.

“This place must be a real sight in full daylight,” Greg muttered as they organized luggage. “Where are we bunking for the duration?”

“Annexe, right over there.” He pointed the way, “We’ll meet my grandparents tomorrow, they’re rather ... excited about having all of us up here.” John picked up his bag and Irene’s and led the way to the two-bedroom annexe. It was very clear the place had been opened up and prepared for guests, the lights were on in the living room and the bedrooms. Getting in, he ushered in his exhausted friends and looked around. He’d be Anderson’s personal idiot if he didn’t think the ferals his grandparents had adopted had snuck in seeking a warm place to sleep, so kept an ear open for any sign of them. Greg and Sherlock took the downstairs bedroom, so John led Irene upstairs to the second bedroom on the first floor.

“Oh, by the way, Sherlock, beware of the cats!” He called over the railing as he went up.

“Cats?” Came the puzzled inquiry, “What cats?”

“These cats!” There was Greg, he’d found one of them. “John, you didn’t say anything about your parents keeping animals!”

“Family of ferals, mutual adoption. Which one did you find, then?” He stopped and turned around as Greg came out of the bedroom, his arms full of a squirmy bundle of ginger-coloured fur.

“Oi! You, stop it! Not too pleased with you right now, yeah?”

“Uh oh. Looks like Bellatrix had kittens again.” John chuckled at the pint-sized terror in Greg’s arms, “Either that or Maleficent.”

“Here, Greg. Give it to me.” Sherlock reached out and carefully extracted the feisty kitten from his fiancé’s arms. “Male or female?”

“Dunno! Didn’t really think to check when it attacked my shoes!”

“Let’s see, shall we? Oh, stop it, you.” Sherlock tutted, deftly cradling the kitten and flipping it over, somehow getting a look at the necessary body-part without getting clawed to shreds. “Female.”

“John?” Irene’s voice came from upstairs, highly amused, “Did you know we have roommates?”

“House-mates, I should think.” He chuckled and went upstairs, “Be right up, love. Goodnight, Sherlock. ‘Night, Greg.”

“Goodnight, John.” The pair said in unison, one a bit more distracted. When he got upstairs, John found Irene sitting in the middle of the bed, staying quite still. Two more kittens were investigating his fiancée, and a third popped out from under the bed to take a swipe at his trouser-cuffs. John just reached down and deftly scooped his tiny assailant into his arms.

“Now, now. None of that.” He chided, holding the kitten just so. “We’re friends, see? No need for posturing.”

“They’re adorable! Where are the parents?”

“Somewhere around. Doubt they’re in here. Might be in the main house.” He smiled and shuffled the kitten to his shoulder. “My grandparents took on a couple of strays several years ago, and whenever they have kittens, they hold onto them until they can be separated from the mother and put them up for adoption.”

“Oh, they’re just sweet little things, aren’t they?” Irene cooed as she lifted one of the two into her arms and rubbed noses, “Do you suppose your grandparents will take the cats with them when they move to London?”

“They’ll take Bellatrix and Maleficent for certain. This lot looks to be right about ready to be adopted, so that’ll be handled by a local rescue, no doubt.”

“So the fathers are just local feral toms, then?”

“More or less. There’s a few that hang around here, drawn by the girls and by the offer of easy food and warm beds.” He shrugged, “My grandparents keep the out-buildings warm for any strays who want a safe place to spend the night.” He knew there were beds and bowls of food and water in the garage and in the workshop behind the house. Pet-doors were installed in several exterior doors on the main house as well as the outbuildings, giving the cats free access to the house as they liked. Setting down his little fuzzy burden, who objected quite loudly to being put down like that, John went through his carry-on for the toiletry kit he had packed. Once he’d found it, he headed for the en-suite. A very loud, disgruntled “mrr!” reminded him that he hadn’t bothered to pick up the kitten who had decided it was a good idea to introduce themselves by attacking his ankles. John looked over his shoulder at the little black creature and snickered.

“What? Did you think I’m a pushover? A free ride because you’re too much of a lazy arse and can’t be bothered to put your paws on the floor now?” The quick answer to that was a blur of black as the kitten abandoned the bed and proceeded to climb John until she got to his torso.

“Ouch! What a pest! Lucky for you you’re _cute_ , fuzzy, because that? Bit Not Good, that is!” He rolled his eyes and shifted the kitten to his shoulder again. “You seem to like sitting up there, but I will not apologise for laughing if you slip and fall off. That’ll be your own fault.” Brushing his teeth and going through routine took a bit longer because of his new friend, but when he finally did leave the en-suite, she was trotting along at his heel, bouncy and clumsy as all kittens were. John chuckled and shooed out the trio that had laid claim to the bedroom.

“Yes, yes, I know. Terrible humans, no manners at all. I’ll see you three trouble-makers soon enough, Christ knows I need a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.” The black one flipped onto her back and took a soft-pawed swipe at John’s foot as he used it to nudge them out of the way.

“Shoo, you pest! Scram, or your tail’s gonna get caught!” The other two wandered off, but John would be damned if the one that had taken a shine to him stuck around and found a way back into the bedroom. Closing the bedroom door, knowing damn well it wouldn’t stop a clever, determined kitten, he turned out the overhead mains and joined Irene in the small but adequate double bed. He had just dozed off when the door creaked a bit. There was no truly audible sound, but when something landed on the bed, he just smiled. It was quiet as they fell asleep, comfortable. John had always felt very much at home in Otterstone Lodge, this was no different.

 

Early the next morning, keeping to their odd hours, John and the others were awake and starting their day. By the time John’s grandparents showed themselves, John had breakfast ready.

“Oh, John, you dear boy!” He heard his grandmother before he saw her and smiled, giving the ham steaks a poke. “You didn’t have to cook for us!”

“Good morning, Nana.” He glanced over his shoulder. “We didn’t wake you coming in this morning, did we?”

“Oh, heavens no!” His grandmother shook her head as she turned him bodily from the range to give him a proper hug. “We are _so_ happy to have you, my dear, and your friends! How long are you up for, then?”

“Until Monday.”

“Well, that’s not very long at all!”

“Greg’s got work on Tuesday.”

“You work too hard.” That was from his grandfather, who came over and pushed John out of the way. “You don’t need to cook breakfast for anyone, John. Go sit.”

“What if I want?”

“Shoo, boy!” That got him an eye roll and a shove, “Sit! And while you’re at it, why don’t you introduce us to your friends?”

“Fine, fine. I’ll sit down.” He chuckled and retreated to the small dining table in the kitchen. Irene just patted the chair next to her and he sat down.

“So, who’s who and how do you know each other?” Nana wandered over with a fresh pot of tea, making herself at home at one end of the table.

“You know Sherlock Holmes, of course.” John looked at his old flat-mate and partner, “But I don’t know if you know the other two.”

“Oh, I knew you on sight, young man!” Nana beamed at Sherlock, “It’s a delight to have you with us!”

“It’s a pleasure to be here, ma’am. Thank you for offering your hospitality to us.”

“Oh, he’s a polite one, isn’t he?”

“When he wants to be.” John chuckled. “I’ll introduce the other two. Greg Lestrade is in charge of keeping that one occupied and they’re due to get married soon.”

“Oh, wonderful! Congratulations, you two!” Granda nodded approvingly. “What about your lovely lady friend, John?”

“This ... this is Irene Adler. She’s more than just a friend.”

“We heard about that, young man, and we were so proud of you.” Nana took John’s hand in hers and squeezed, “And if you need a place to host friends and family, Otterstone Lodge is yours to have.”

“Thank you so much, Nana. Your packet reached me in London intact, which I’ll take as a blessing considering my sister’s current state of well-being.” John sighed, “Is it awful that I’ve gotten used to her unstable moods so much that violence no longer startles me? It’s just a normal part of my interactions with her now.”

“You can’t save ‘em all, boy. And even if you want to, they don’t always want to be saved.” Granda said sternly, shaking the spatula at John, “All you can do is keep watch and be ready for the worst.”

“I don’t think she knew what was in the packet you sent me, or I might not have gotten it at all.” He rubbed the warm ceramic between his hands. “I don’t want to put you and Granda out, but if we could ... ”

“Oh, don’t worry about us, John.” Granda waved off his concern as he laid down plates loaded with food. A proper Scottish breakfast, John was thrilled. He saw the expression on Sherlock’s face and snickered.

“Not a word out of you, Holmes. No cases on right now, just eat what suits you.” He said calmly, “And I don’t mean poke at it, I mean eat.” His grandparents must follow his blog somehow, they just smiled at each other when Sherlock made some muttered comment about how he wasn’t hungry and just because he wasn’t on a case meant he _had_ to eat.

“It’s not going to kill you, Sherlock, it’s food. Be nice.” Greg scolded, which got them a baleful expression.

“Mr Holmes,” Irene spoke up calmly, quietly, a world of power in her tone. John looked at Greg and raised an eyebrow. His name spoken in warning was enough for Sherlock to behave himself, and John took his fiancée’s hand under the table, grateful to have someone else around who could handle Sherlock.

* * *

 

A month later, the residents of 221B Baker Street found themselves back in Stanley, Perthshire, Scotland. But this time, they weren’t visiting family. This time, they had come up for the wedding of John and Irene. Guests and family were staying in nearby hotels in Perth and Stanley while the party, small as it was, had decided to stay at the house. The couple had settled for a Handfasting Ceremony, seeing as neither of them were particularly religious, but it was still very meaningful and lovely. The day itself dawned bright and clear, and quite pleasantly warm as well. Most of the morning was spent getting ready, and the house was a hive of activity as the couple was separated to prevent them from seeing each other by accident before the ceremony. Catering teams took over the kitchen, the wedding planner took charge of a small army of workers and got busy setting up chairs and a tent outside on the front lawn. An eye was kept on the weather, they had a Plan B in case of rain. But finally, after hours of fussing and preparation and some cursing on the groom’s part as they got _him_ ready, it was time for the ceremony. The couple arrived in separate hired cars, guided to the proper spot and told to wait. They were blindfolded so they couldn’t see each other.

“Welcome to all, on this blessed day.” The minister welcomed the wedding party and the guests, signalling the start of the ceremony once the bride had made her “entrance” and joined the groom on the wide patio and the blindfolds had been removed.

“We are gathered here today to celebrate one of life’s greatest moments, to give recognition to the worth and beauty of love, and to add our best wishes to the words which shall unite John Watson and Irene Adler in marriage. Should there be anyone who has cause why this couple should not be united in marriage, they must speak now or forever hold their peace.” At this point, he stopped and gave any potential naysayers a chance to speak their minds. No one did, of course.

“John and Irene, know now before you go further, that since your lives have crossed in this life, you have formed eternal and sacred bonds. As you seek to enter this state of matrimony you should strive to make real the ideals that to you, give meaning this ceremony and to the institution of marriage.” The minister took John’s hand and then Irene’s, “With full awareness, know that within this circle you are not only declaring your intent to be handfasted before your friends and family, but you speak that intent also to your creative higher powers. The promises made today and the ties that are bound here greatly strengthen your union and will cross the years and lives of each soul’s growth. Do you still seek to enter this ceremony?”

“Yes.” They answered in unison and the minister nodded.

“Life is given to each of us as individuals, and yet we must learn to live together. Love is given to us by our family or by our friends. We learn to love by being loved. Learning to love and living together is one of the greatest challenges of life – and is the shared goal of a married life. Do you have a token or symbol which you wish to exchange?”

“We do.” At this, the rings were delivered not by any human hands, but by Bréagha, who had a box attached to her collar and sat patiently by Pen waiting for the signal. The minister held the rings in his open hand once they had been retrieved.

“John, will you give your token to Irene and repeat these words: I, John Watson, take thee, Irene Adler, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, for fairer or fouler, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereunto I plight thee my troth.” John took the ring he was giving to Irene and took a deep breath.

“I, John Watson, take thee, Irene Adler, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, for fairer or fouler, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereunto I plight thee my troth.” Somehow, he managed to avoid dropping the ring and slid it onto Irene’s hand.

“Irene, will you give your token to John and repeat these words: I, Irene Adler take thee, John Watson, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to be bonny and buxom at bed and at board, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereunto I plight thee my troth.” Irene smiled and took the ring she was giving to John.

“I, Irene Adler take thee, John Watson, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to be bonny and buxom at bed and at board, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereunto I plight thee my troth.” Irene slid the ring onto John’s hand, shaking almost as badly as poor John, but she didn’t drop her ring either. With those words spoken, the minister looked to Kate and Sherlock next.

“Will the Best Man please stand forward?” Sherlock stepped out and the minister showed him where to stand. This was the important part of the ceremony, this was the hand-fasting. The minister took the handfasting cord from Sherlock.

“John and Irene, I bid you look into each other’s eyes.” The minister cleared his throat meaningfully. “Will you honour and respect one another, and seek to never break that honour?”

“We will.” They spoke in unison.

“Will you share each other’s pain and seek to ease it?”

“We will.”

“Will you share the burdens of each so that your spirits may grow in this union?”

“We will.”

“Will you share each other’s laughter, and look for the brightness in life and the positive in each other?”

“We will.”

“John and Irene, as your hands are bound together now, so your lives and spirits are joined in a union of love and trust. Above you are the stars and below you is the earth. Like the stars, your love should be a constant source of light, and like the earth, a firm foundation from which to grow.” The minister laid and tied the cord around John and Irene’s hands once in a figure-of-eight, binding their hands together.

“John and Irene, you have exchanged your promises and given and received tokens in my presence. By these acts, you have become wed. According to the laws of The Commonwealth of Great Britain, I hereby pronounce you are married. You may seal your promise with a kiss.” And by god did they ever. John took great pleasure in raising the veil and tucking it back for that bloody kiss. Kate had to brace her hand on Irene’s shoulder when John’s kiss almost knocked her off her feet

“Ladies and gentlemen, Mr and Mrs Watson!” The minister was absolutely beaming. It couldn’t have been more perfect. John and Irene walked down the aisle together as their wedding-march played.

 

After signing the Marriage Registers, which would be filed appropriately, John and Irene did a receiving-line in the sitting room, they had plenty of guests to have one. First were John’s parents, and Sholto, followed by the surviving grandparents, and then came Mrs Hudson with her plus-one. Mrs Hudson was just beside herself, all tearful and overjoyed.

“You two look so handsome!” She gushed as she hugged them both, “I’m so happy for you, John!”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” John kissed his landlady on the cheek, “I’m glad you could come.”

“Oh, as if I would miss this!” She rolled her eyes at him and stroked the material of the sash Irene wore over her dress. “This is gorgeous. What is it?”

“This is…um, there’s a bit of a story to this, Mrs Hudson.” John looked at Irene, who blushed. “This is my family’s clan tartan. See, Watson is Scottish, I have roots here and family living.”

“That’s how you got the house! Oh, I’ve met your grandparents, I didn’t think of that! How wonderful! Well, you look properly handsome in your get-up, John!” Said as she gave a brief tug on a stray pleat of John’s kilt. Oh, they had been forced to wrestle him into it, he had gone down fighting mad, but it had been worth it. John honestly loved dressing up, and as complicated and mortifying as the kilt was, there was something comforting about wearing it. In the spirit of the occasion, Irene had worn a sash of the Watson tartan with her dress likewise. Sherlock had worn his clan tartan, Hume Modern, and looked quite dashing. Several guests wore kilts, they wore clan or Black Watch accordingly. 

 

After everyone had more or less filtered into the marquee tent set up outside the dining room, their Master of Ceremonies announced the entrance for the wedding party, which included John’s parents. John did not miss how Kingsley Ferguson escorted Marian, and didn’t she look so bloody pleased with herself? It was a lovely touch, and a subtle way to acknowledge his part played in John’s life and involve him more intimately with the wedding. Then the respective members of the party with John and Irene bringing up the rear.

“Ladies, gents, and others! Please stand and put your hands together for the bride and groom!” The Master of Ceremonies boomed, bringing everyone not already standing to their feet, “I give you Mr and Mrs Watson!” Their guests made quite a lot of noise, but what startled John more than that was the Honour Guard. Twelve soldiers in parade dress-uniform, two in No. 1 Dress Blues and the remaining ten in the khaki Temperate Parade Dress, with ceremonial sabres. An added bit of ceremonial circumstance was the song he and Irene entered to. Someone had gotten hold of a good-quality recording of the British Grenadiers Quick March, the parade march for the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, Royal Northumberland Fusiliers. John wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry, or both. Of course, he had invited all surviving members of his original unit, so there was that to be considered. If he had to guess, he could lay square blame for this on Bill Murray and James Sholto, they would do just this kind of thing for him on his wedding day. In fact, he knew it was Murray’s fault when he passed him, with his partner Nathan Lockhart on the other side of the aisle, beaming like the idiot he was. That stupid, sly, know-it-all smirk he wore when he knew he’d gotten something sneaky past his captain. Murray and Lockhart, being the senior-most officers among those gathered, wore their No. 1 Ceremonials. Reaching out, John pinched Murray’s waist. He flinched and caught his hand, dropping a quick kiss to the back as he passed.

“Twat.”

“Bastard.” He muttered, beaming. John couldn’t help snickering.

“John.” Irene scolded softly. John snorted. They finally got to the head table, and then it was time for dinner.

 

John’s watch read 7.30 before the MC announced the first dance, which was to be followed by the father-daughter and mother-son dances. John would dance with his mother, but with Irene’s father no longer in the picture, that responsibility had been passed on to his former commander and fallen to Ferguson. They had decided to combine the parent-child dances into one, for simplicity and time, and John and Irene had long ago settled on Eric Clapton’s “Tears In Heaven” for their combined dance. John and Irene, however, were up to something a bit more…upbeat for their First Dance, settling on Billy Joel’s “The Longest Time”. It just fit the occasion and how their relationship had started and grown. As the first strains of “The Longest Time” filled the marquee tent, John took his wife’s hand.

“I _know_ you can dance, Mr Watson, I don’t know what you’re so worried about.” She teased.

“We usually don’t have such a big audience.” He made a turn, relieved he didn’t botch it, “Mrs Hudson doesn’t mind, and Sherlock taught me how to dance.”

“Oh, is _that_ why you know how to dance?”

“More or less.” John just smiled and looked for Sherlock on the next turn. There he was, standing with Greg on the fringes of the dance-floor, looking quite pleased with himself. Hours had been spent teaching John how to dance, years ago when he’d first lived at Baker Street and started working with Sherlock. He couldn’t remember what the exact reason was, but Sherlock had discovered John’s two left feet and taken it upon himself to properly teach him how to dance. That had come in very handy, especially as he got more serious with Irene. There was nothing he liked more than turning on this exact song and dancing her around the sitting room or kitchen. Or even their bedroom.

John surprised Irene with a quarter-spin and a dip as the song ended.

“Who taught you that?” She asked breathlessly once they were both upright again. “Sherlock didn’t teach you _that_ , did he?”

“No, Mrs Watson.” He smirked and nuzzled her ear, “ _You_ taught me how to do that.” Irene giggled and blushed when he kissed the back of her hand. “Oh, you’re a proper menace, Captain!”

“I’m _your_ menace, Miss Adler.” He said, giving her a lewd wink.

“Hmm. Lucky me.” She brushed the fringe away from his eyes. “You need a haircut again.”

“Just a trim.” He listened to the music start again and looked past Irene to Colonel Ferguson, who waited at the edges of the dance-floor for his turn.

“Hm. I have to hand you off, be nice to him.”

“He’s my father-in-law, I can be nice.” Irene rolled her eyes at him and pulled away from him as his parents stepped onto the dance floor for the joint dance. John took his mother’s hand as the first strains played.

“I would love to know who taught you how to dance, John. You never could quite get the hang of it when you were younger.” His mother smiled as they passed by Ferguson and Irene, who were enjoying themselves, “God knows you tried your best, though.”

“You can thank Sherlock for teaching me. He decided I needed to learn properly and spent hours with me in the Baker Street sitting room, we covered the windows and locked the doors, but I’m very certain Mrs Hudson managed to get some footage of us.”

“Lucky bastard,” Marian muttered, the envy very clear in her voice. John chuckled and kissed his mother on the cheek.

“Are you happy, Mum?”

“I’m ... I’ve never been happier.” She chuckled shakily, “God, I never thought I’d get married again!”

“I never thought I’d get married at all, it was never something I thought was that important.” He sighed and looked over his shoulder at Irene and Ferguson.

“None of us thought you would. You were such a feisty little piece of work, they took bets on anyone brave enough or stupid enough to try and take on Three Continents Watson.” Marian just smiled at him, “You earned that nickname in more than one way, love.”

“Oh, Christ.” John groaned and closed his eyes for a minute, mortified. He had more than one nickname from the Army, but the one that had stuck was Three Continents Watson. It had a history in his service on three different continents, in several countries involved. He had served in Europe, Asia, and Africa. But it also had a history in his romantic background, he had a reputation as a bit of a Casanova. If he wanted, he usually got. He had always been careful, of course, but his list of former romantic liaisons was a little ridiculous. He could only imagine how his _mother_ had found out about that. Probably because Sholto or Ferguson told her, which they would have.

“My boy got himself married off to a good woman. You’re a lucky man, John Watson, you deserve to be happy.” His mother whispered.

“Thank you for coming, Mum. I ... I missed you. It’s ridiculous, but I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, John. I’m so sorry for the way things were between us and grateful you were willing to make amends.”

“I had no reason not to.” He squeezed his mother’s hands, truly grateful that he could count her part of his life again after so many years of misunderstandings.

 

When the song ended, Ferguson bowed to Irene, kissed the back of her hand, and kissed her on the cheek. His stepfather was actually quite fond of Irene, which was more than John had dared to hope for. But Irene’s line of work did not faze Ferguson at all, and he was always sure to tell John how lucky he was. With the first dances out of the way, the floor was opened up to the rest of the assembly and it was time to get the party started. John was rarely off his feet the rest of the night, either visiting with their guests or dancing. It was a good night, and when John and Irene finally saw off the last of their guests at half-past eleven, it was with great relief that they retreated to the master bedroom suite and went to bed together, happily exhausted and giddy. Tomorrow was the first day of their lives together and John was both nervous and excited.

* * *

* * *

 


	28. Accidents of the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life has settled down a bit more for the Baker Street Gang, but never trust the peace and quiet. John learns this the hard way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conversations re: birth control, sterilization procedures, and pregnancy are had here. My apologies for any inconsistencies or errors, I just did brief research to get an idea of how things work and how they might potentially fail.

* * *

* * *

Following the wedding, John and Irene took a month and travelled to Europe, visiting the coastal countries. They spent time in Paris, of course. Upon their return, John went right back to working cases with Sherlock and Irene maintained a roster of clients that spanned social classes for those with the means to pay for her services. It was a good way of life if a bit … odd.

 

One afternoon, Irene was out of the house on some errand or other,  and John was doing some case-work in the office. It had been a typical day and John had been in and out of the house helping Sherlock and Greg most of the morning. Now he was getting some catch-up work done. It was quiet in the house, Sherlock had stopped by after their last case and taken Brèagha to give him some peace and quiet, said it was no trouble and Sadie could use some company besides. But John knew the quiet couldn’t last. He was disturbed not by anyone knocking on the door, but by his phone going off. Curious, and suspecting it _wasn’t_ Sherlock, he reached over and picked up his phone, swiping into the new message. It was from Irene, a photograph with a heart-stopping caption:

 

**Third time’s the charm! – IWA**

 

John almost dropped his phone in shock. No, there was absolutely no way this could be right. I mean, short of a miracle of biological and medical science. Fingers shaking, he tapped out a hesitant reply.

 

**This is for real? – JWA**

**This is for real. It’s actually the fifth test I’ve taken. – IWA**

**The first was negative, the last four have all been just like this. – IWA**

John knew he was going to have a panic attack if he didn’t do something, this was not supposed to be happening. His phone chimed again and he looked at the new message.

 

**Are you angry? – IWA**

 

It kind of broke his heart that she had to ask.

 

**No! No, I’m not angry! – JWA**

**I promise, I’m NOT angry. I’m … I don’t know. – JWA**

**I. Am. Not. Angry. I promise. – JWA**

 

John wasn’t angry, he was panicking. Getting up, he abandoned his work and looked for his coat and gear. He had to get out, had to find someone to stabilize him. Once he was ready to go out, he headed for the door.

“Rosemary, I’m out for a bit!” He yelled as he let himself out. “Be back later!”                                                   

“Be safe, dear!” She called from the kitchen. John closed the door behind him and headed for the street. He had to walk to Abbey Road to hail a cab, and he ordered the driver to The Met’s Victoria Street offices.

“Victoria Street, please.” He looked up as they got underway, texting Greg at the same time.

“Where to, sir?” The driver asked pleasantly.

“8-10 Victoria Street. Fast as possible, most direct route, please. It’s urgent.” He focused on his phone as Greg responded.

 

**I’m out on a case rn. Everything alright? – G**

 

**Oh, okay. I just had a question about something. – JWA**

**It’s no rush, though. Don’t let me disturb you. It can wait. – JWA**

**What’s up, kid? Are you sure you’re okay? – G**

 

Damn, Greg was smart. But he had experience with John and vague text-messages. He drummed his fingers against his thigh and worried his lip.

“You alright, sir?” The driver had noticed his anxiety. 

“What?”

“You seem a little … wired. Everything alright?” It was a genuine question, asked in goodwill. John let out a shaky breath and looked out the window. No, everything was not alright.

“Oh, no, no. I’m fine, it’s just … kind of urgent. I’m fine.” He forced himself to relax. John knew every route between Clifton Hill and The Met and knew when the cabbie changed his route to one a bit more direct to his destination. He was distracted by his phone alerting him to another text-message and he read it apprehensively.

 

**If you need anything, I just sent Sally back to the office. She’ll meet you there. – G**

**Feel free to hang around the work-floor if you beat us back. Is this case-related? – G**

 

That gave him an excuse. He actually did have some of the files from his desk with him, he didn’t remember grabbing them, but he must have.

 

**Yeah, it is. Sorry to just kind of drop in on you like this. – JWA**

**But I need you for something else, too. I’ll explain when you get back. – JWA**

**Alright. I’ll be back as soon as I can get out of this mess. – G**

**Had to call Sherlock, feel like I should have called you, too. You would’ve had a blast with this one. – G**

Uh oh. Sherlock was involved? John wasn’t sure if he could handle his flat-mate just at the moment.

 

**See you at the office, then? – JWA**

**Absolutely. I shouldn’t be too long here. See you in a few. – G**

**Sherlock bailed out of here a minute ago, said he had to see Molly about something or other.  – G**

Oh, what a relief! John chuckled a bit and settled in for the rest of the drive to The Met.

 

When they got to The Met, he paid the fare and a tip and headed inside. By some miracle of timing, he met Sally in the lift. She took one look at him and just knew. She didn’t know why, but she _knew_.

“You okay, John?”

“Nope.” He leaned against the back wall of the lift as a couple of uniformed constables from another division got on.

“Hey, Doc, you alright?” One of the constables asked, having noticed John’s posture and expression. “You look a little ragged, mate.”

“It’s just been a long week, Thomas. I’m alright.” He reassured the constable. “How’s your wife?”

“She’s fine. Could be better.”

“Oh?”

“She’s been awfully … I don’t know what the word for it is, but she’s been so cranky!” Selwyn Thomas grimaced. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was pregnant!”

“What makes you say that?” John hoped he didn’t suddenly look like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Oh, she doesn’t sleep at all most nights, her appetite’s gone way off the rails, and if she’s not cussing me out, she’s sobbing. She started crying over an advert on the telly last night for no reason at all!”

“Has she been to a doctor?” He asked carefully.

“She keeps insisting there’s nothing wrong with her and just about bit my head off this morning for asking again.” Thomas looked distinctly uncomfortable, and John did not blame him at all. That was precisely _his_ problem, minus the bad attitude. Just then, Thomas’s phone chimed and they all looked at each other, then at Thomas, who stared at his phone like it was going to come alive and bite him.

“Here, hand it over,” John said, holding one hand out to the man. Thomas deposited the offending item in his outstretched hand and he pulled up the lock-screen. He wasn’t going to hack into Thomas’s phone, but he didn’t have to since the text-message in question was displayed on the lock screen.

“Oh, brother.” He exhaled slowly and held it out to Thomas, “You want to take this one, mate.”

“No, I really don’t. Can’t you take it for me?” Thomas looked so desperate John felt sorry for him and did just what he’d told himself he wouldn’t. Unlocking Thomas’s phone by working out the swipe-pattern from the fingerprint smear on the screen, he opened the message from Thomas’s wife, Melissa. Just like the text he’d gotten earlier from Irene, the one that had sent him looking for a safe-place at The Met, it was a camera-phone snap and caption.

“Ooh. That’s some luck, mate.” He handed over the phone with a sympathetic smile. “I’d say good luck.”

“Oh, shit.” Thomas looked at the picture and went pale as a sheet.

“You’d better call her when you get back to your desk. Or when you have a minute to yourself.” He counselled. “You’ve got _my_ number, don’t you?”

“I … think I do?” Thomas turned wide, frantic eyes to him, “What do I do?”

“Talk to her. She’s probably just as nervous as you are.” He dug a business-card out of his wallet and handed it over. “Here’s my card, my number’s on the back. Call any time if you want to talk. I’m usually pretty free on my schedule if you ever want to go for a pint.”

“Oh, sure! Jesus, yes please!” Thomas held onto his card like it was made of gold. “Are you sure, Doc?”

“Absolutely.” He put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder and leaned in so only Thomas would hear him as the lift stopped again. “Mostly because I think you and me might be in the same fucking boat, son.”

“Really?!”

“Shh.” He touched a finger to his lips and smiled, “I still have to get my head around it.”

“But I thought you … ” Thomas trailed off with a wiggle of his fingers.

“Yeah, I did. I’ll fill you in later?”

“Absolutely.” Thomas smiled a bit frantically and squeezed his arm. “Good luck, Doc!”

“Thanks, Thomas, you too.” He waved as Thomas stepped off the lift and waited for the doors to close again. 

“What was _that_ about?” Sally looked at him sideways.                                  

“Melissa Thomas is pregnant. Not sure how far along, can’t be terribly advanced at this date, but I think Sel’s going to need a friendly ear to cry to.” He just shrugged. “You’ve got your handcuffs, right?”

“Yeah, I always have my handcuffs.” Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t need them, do you?”

“I don’t think they would hurt any.”

“Boy, you haven’t asked Greg for _that_ in a long time!” Sally shook her head as the lift reached their floor and they made their way to the division offices, “I can only imagine what it is that you didn’t go to Irene or Sherlock.”

“I didn’t go to Irene because she’s the _reason_ I need it and I didn’t go to Sherlock because the last thing I need is your boss’s genius fiancée figuring it all out in a single glance and then laying it out in public.”

“He wouldn’t do that, would he?”

“Yes, he would.” John ran one hand through his hair as he followed Sally to Greg’s office. John made a stop by the gents before beating a quick retreat to the office, where he found Sally waiting with her handcuffs and a bottle of water. Once he was inside, John locked the door and made sure the shades were pulled so that no one on the work-floor could see into the office. Toeing off his shoes, he hung his coat and set his work-bag on the visitor’s chair. Sally pulled out the small kneeling cushion and put it down next to the desk. She also took his side-arm and safed the weapon, clearing the chamber and ejecting the clip before laying it out on Greg’s desk.

“Arms out.” She ordered, and he obediently stood for a pat-down. When she found a spare universal key and a couple of hairpins in his back pocket, she looked at him with an eyebrow raised.

“Really?”

“That’s what the pat-down is for, love.” He just smiled at her, knowing she hated when he did that if she found contraband on him as she had just now. Shaking her head, she set the items on the desk next to his gun.

“Kneel.” She ordered. He obeyed without objection. Lowering himself into a comfortable kneel, he looked up as Sally stood in front of him. She wasted no time kneeling with him, laying the water within easy reach, and unlocked the handcuffs.

“Hands.” She said quietly, waiting as he held up his hands. In quick succession, she closed the bracelets around his wrists, loose enough not to leave much of a mark but tight enough he couldn’t get out of them. He tested them, she tightened them just a bit more before either of them were satisfied.

“Thanks for doing this, Sally.”

“That’s alright. I was kind of wondering why Greg sent me back to the office so early, but he said he thought you might be coming by and he’d rather you didn’t find the place all locked up.”

“Not that I don’t have my own keys or anything.” He smiled and rattled the cuffs.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, why _didn’t_ you go to Irene or Sherlock?”

“Well, I didn’t go to Sherlock because I don’t need him putting his nose in my business until I want him to put it there, and I didn’t go to Irene because … well, it’s kind of her fault I had to come to Greg in the first place.”

“You said that before. You two aren’t fighting already, are you?”

“No, it’s not that at all.” He sighed and bowed his head. “Can you … get my phone for me?”

“Yeah, of course, I can.” Sally got to her feet and fetched his phone from the pocket of his coat. Coming back, she handed it to him. Even in handcuffs, he could still use his phone, and John swiped into the text-thread with Irene, composing a new message.

 

**Who am I allowed to talk to about this? Can I tell Greg? – JWA**

He didn’t have to wait very long for a reply to come and it was about what he’d expected.

 

**Of course you can tell Greg. It wouldn’t be right to keep this from him. – IWA**

**Where are you, by the way? I got home and you were gone. – IWA**

**Rosemary said you left, couldn’t say where you were or when you’d be home. Are you safe? – IWA**

He smiled at her concern and knew why she was so worried. The last time she’d left him alone for anything had been in the very earliest days of their relationship, before they even started dating, and he’d had a dissociative episode on the roof of Saint Bart’s Hospital. Also, this time she had kind of dropped a huge surprise on him.

 

**I’m at The Met, waiting in Greg’s office for him to get back from a case. – JWA**

**Are you with someone? – IWA**

John looked over at Sally and smiled before responding with an affirmative.

 

**I’m with Sally Donovan atm. She’s going to stay with me, I suspect. – JWA**

**Am I allowed to tell HER about this? – JWA**

 

**You can tell Sally if you’d like. I know she’s a dear friend of yours. – IWA**

**I’m sorry for startling you like this, I know you didn’t expect it. – IWA**

 

John snorted and shook his head. It wasn’t so much that he hadn’t been expecting it, it should have been absolutely impossible.

“What did she say?” Sally asked softly.

“You can see it, she doesn’t mind if you know.” John scrolled back to the first message that had started this whole mess and handed the phone to her. “But don’t let it get out to anyone else.”

“Let … what get out?” Sally had seen the text and her eyes widened. “Oh my god. John!”

“Yeah, I know.  Do you see my problem?”

“But … _how_? How was this possible? I thought … ” As Selwyn Thomas had in the lift, Sally trailed off with a hand-gesture. “This shouldn’t _be_ possible!”

“I know, but she wouldn’t lie to me about something like this.” He shook his head and settled back on his heels.

“How long have you been married?”

“Let’s see, we got married in May?”

“18 May. It’s October now.”

“So that’s … five months?”  John sighed, doing some quick calculations in his head. “Sounds right.”

“When did you have the procedure done?”

“Right after we got back from the honeymoon.” He remembered that day clearly and had never once regretted the decision to go under the knife for a vasectomy. He and Irene weren’t particularly interested in having any children, and it was far simpler for John to undergo a sterilization surgery than for Irene to do so, which is why he had elected for it. A weekend recovering on the couch and he was back to work with Sherlock the following Monday. He stayed away from most of the legwork for a week or two, writing up the cases on his blog and making sure all of the proper reports were written out and filed with The Met as necessary. But it was no time at all before he was tagging along after Sherlock and keeping his friend out of the trouble which seemed to hound him at all quarters.

“John?” Sally touched him on the shoulder, drawing him back to the now. To the issue at hand.

“She said that’s the fifth test, the first one came up negative and the next four were all positives.”

“But I still don’t understand how she could have possibly gotten a positive result if you’ve been sterilized!”

“Properly reckless of me.” He sighed, shaking his head at himself. This was entirely his fault, and he would own to it if pressed. “All it takes is once for the protection to fail.” If protection was used at all, sometimes he and Irene didn’t use a condom.

“Oh, John. I’m so sorry.” Sally patted him on the shoulder. “I know you weren’t terribly interested in having children. What are you going to do?”

“Do? Nothing. I can’t do anything, can I? It’s my fault, and clearly, it doesn’t bother Irene the way it bothers me.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

“Alright. Do you want me to stay?”

“If you’re not too busy, I would like some company.”

“I can stay for a while, but I should get back to work soon.” Sally settled to wait with him, which John was grateful for.  The quiet that fell between them was a bit tense but still comfortable. John reflected on what this development meant for the future. How it might change existing plans, change what they did for a living. Something to consider and discuss at a later date.

* * *

* * *

 


End file.
